xf         & 


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1 


BROWNING  AT  77  (1889). 


ROBERT  BROWN- 
ING'S  SELECTED  ™ 


NEW  YORK,  THOMAS  Y. 
CROWELL  &  COMPANY, 
PUBLISHERS  jfc  Jt-  Jt> 


POEMS 


CF 


ROBERT    BROWNING 

jFrom  tije  ^utijor's  &ebtsc&  HZext  at  1839 
HIS  OWN  SELECTIONS 

WITH  ADDITIONS  FROM  HIS  LATEST   WORKS 


EDITED  WITH   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND   CRITICAL 
NOTES  AND  INTRODUCTIONS 

BY 

CHARLOTTE  PORTER  AND  HELEN  A.  CLARKE 

EDITORS  OF  "  POET  LORE  " 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &   CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 
BY  T    Y     CROWELL   &   CC 


Xorfaooti  53rtss 

i.  S.  Cashing  i  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A 


DEDICATED  TO 


IN  POETRY — ILLUSTRIOUS  AND   CONSUMMATE 
IK  FRIENDSHIP  —  NOBLE   AND   SINCERE 


2234598 


In  the  present  selection  from  my  poetry,  thkre  is  an  attempt  to 
tscape  from  the  embarrassment  of  appearing  Jo  pronounce  upon 
what  myself  may  consider  the  best  of  it.  I  adopt  another  principle  ; 
and  by  simply  stringing  together  certain  pieces  on  the  thread  of  an 
imaginary  personality,  I  present  them  in  succession,  rather  as  the 
natural  development  of  a  particular  experience  than  because  I 
account  them  the  most  noteworthy  portion  of  my  work.  -Such  an 
attempt  was  made  in  the  volume  of  selections  from  the  poetry  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning :  to  which  —  in  outward  uniformity, 
at  least — my  own  would  venture  to  become  a  companion. 

A  few  years  ago,  had  such  an  opportunity  presented  itself,  I 
might  have  been  tempted  to  say  a  word  in  reply  to  the  objections 
my  poetry  was  used  to  encounter.  Time  has  kindly  co-operated 
with  my  disinclination  to  write  the  poetry  and  the  criticism 
besides.  The  readers  I  am  at  last  privileged  to  expect,  meet  me 
fully  half-way  ;  and  if,  from  the  fitting  stand-point,  they  must  still 
"censure  me  in  their  wisdom,"  they  have  previously  "awakened 
their  senses  that  they  may  the  better  judge."  Nor  do  I  apprehend 
any  more  charges  of  being  wilfully  obscure,  unconscientiously  care- 
less, or  perversely  harsh.  Having  hitherto  done  my  utmost  in  the 
art  to  which  my  life  is  a  devotion,  I  cannot  engage  to  increase  the 
effort ;  but  I  conceive  that  there  may  be  helpful  light,  as  well  as 
re-assuring  warmth,  in  the  attention  and  sympathy  I  gratefully 
acknowledge. 

R.  B. 

London,  May  14,  1872. 


•; 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

EDITOR'S  PREFACE ix 

BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION  .  .     xi 

CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION  ....  xxv 

/^My  Star i 

A 'Face i 

Last  Duchess  • 2 

g  from  "  Pippa  Passes"       ...      3 
Cristma       .......       4 

Count  Gismond S 

Eurydice  to  Orpheus          ....      9 
The  Glove 9 


Song 
••A  Serenade  at  the  Villa     .         .         .         .14 

Youth  and  Art 16 

___The  Flight  of  the  Duchess        .  .     19 

"T^Song  from  "  Pippa  Passes  "       .         .         -     39 
^     "  How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix "  ....     39 

Song  from  "  Paracelsus  "  .         .         .         -41 

— --"Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-el-Kadr        .     42 

^f  Incident  of  the  French  Camp    .         .         -43 

The  Lost  Leader 44 

AIn  a  Gondola 45 

A  Lovers'  Quarrel      .         .         .         .         .51 

Etrth's  Immortalities         .         .         .         -56 

^fl'he  Last  Ride  together     .         .         .         -56 

Mesmerism         ......     59 

By  the  Fireside 64 

^tuy  Wife  to  Any  Husband        .         .         .     72 
^^TI  a  Year   .......     76 

Song  from  "  James  Lee  ".         .         .         .79 

•^A  Woman's  Last  Word      .        .        .         -79 

.^-Meeting  at  Night 81 

.   Parting  at  Morning 81 

-^Vomen  and  Roses     .         .         .         .         .81 

Misconceptions.         .         .         .         .         .83 

83 

Be 


retty  Woman 
A  Light  Woman 
Love  in  a  Life    .... 
Life  in  a  Love    .... 
The  Laboratory 
Gold  Hair:   A  Story  of  Pornic 
The  Statue  and  the  Bust   . 
ILove  among  the  Ruins 
Time's  Revenges 
Waring       ..... 
Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad  . 
The  Italian  in  England 
The  Englishman  in  Italy  . 


PAGB 

Up  at  a  Villa  —  Down  in  the  City  .  .  120 
Pictor  Ignotus  ...  .  .  123 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi         .....  124- 

Andrea  del  Sarto i33_ 

The   Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at   Saint 

Praxed's  Church 138 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's  ....  141 
How  it  strikes  a  Contemporary  .  .  143 
Protus  .......  146 


Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha          .         .  147 

Abt  Vogler 152  . 

Two  in  the  Campagna       ....  155 

"  De  Gustibus " 157 

The  Guardian-Angel          ....  158 

Evelyn  Hope      ......  160 

Memorabilia 162 

Apparent  Failure 162 

Pr 


164  ~~ 


Childe    Roland    to    the    Dark    Tower 
came  ".......  165 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral  ....  171  • 

Cleon 174 

Instans  Tyrannus      .         .         .         .         .  182 

An  Epistle  containing  the  Strange  Medi- 
cal Experience  of  Karshish,  the  Arab 
Physician        ......  184- 

Caliban  upon  Setebos  ;  or,  Natural  The- 
ology in  the  Island         ....  191 

Saul 198* 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 207 

Epilogue 213 

A  Wall 217 

Apparitions 218 

.  218 
.  219 
.  219 
.  223 
.  224 
.  225- 
.  225 
.  226 
.  230 

•  230 

•  234 

•  237 
.  238 
.  240 

•  241 

•  251 


Natural  Magic 

Magical  Nature          . 

Garden  Fancies . 

In  Three  Days  . 

The  Lost  Mistress 

One  Way  of  Love 

Rudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli 

Numpholeptos   . 

Appearances 

The  Worst  of  it 

Too  Late    .... 

Bifurcation 

A  Likeness 

May  and  Death 

A  Forgiveness    . 

Cenciaja     .... 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


Porphyria's  Lover 

Filippo 
Burial 

Soliloquy 

The  Here 

Holy-Cross  Day 

Amphibian          .. 

St.  Martin's  Summer 

James  Lee's  Wife 

Respectability    . 

Dis  Aliter 
Jours       . 

Confessions 

The  Householder 

Tray  . 

Cavalier  Tunes 

Before 

After 

Herv^  Riel 

In  a  Balcony 
-    Old  Pictures 

Bishop  Bloug 

Mr.  Sludge, 

The  Boy  and 

A  Death  in  t 

Fears  and  Scruples 

Artemis  Prologizes    . 

Pheidippides 
' The  Patriot        . 


p 

AGE 

257 

259 
272 
275 

->-r« 

P 

ucci  on  the   Privilege  of 

2  Spanish  Cloister     . 
^ragedy      .... 

Pisgah  Sights.    2        
Pisgah  Sights.    3                  .         .         .         * 

282 

mmer         .         .        . 
ife              .... 

285 
288 
300 

3OI 
306 
307 
308 
310 
3I2 

3'4 
3*4 
3i8 

A  Tale        .         .         .         .         . 
Additional    Selections   from    Browning's 
Latest  Works,  1880-1889 
Echetlos     
Touch  him  ne'er  so  Lightly       .         .         . 
Wanting  is  —  What?          . 
Never  the  Time  and  the  Place  . 
Round  us  the  Wild  Creatures  . 
Ask  not  One  Least  Word  of  Praise  . 
Epilogue  to  "  Ferishtah's  Fancies  "          . 
The  Names         
Why  I  am  a  Liberal  ..... 
Prologue  to  "  Asolando  ". 

m  ;  or,  Le  Byron  de  Nos 

er      



m's  Apology     .         . 
The  Medium  "  . 
e  Angel     .... 
Desert      .... 
ales    . 

347 
369 
403 
406 

421 

Summum  Bonum       
Muckle-Mouth  Meg           .... 
Epilogue  to  "  Asolando  " 
Notes 

422 
425 

428 


Bibliography 
Index  to  Poems 
Index  to  First  Lines  . 


PAGE 

429 
432 
433 
434 
435 
439 


-  448 
.  448 

449 
449 

•  450 
45° 
45' 
451 
452 
452 
453 
454 
455  ' 
455 


459 
5°4 
5°9 
5" 


EDITORS'    PREFACE. 


"OROWNING'S  own  selections  from  his  works  supply  the  general 
-D  reader,  or  the  student  who  intends  further  complete  study,  with 
the  most  coherent  representative  short  survey  or  initial  presentation  of 
his  whole  complex  and  voluminous  genius. 

The  poet  has  made  his  selections  cover  the  entire  range  of  his  work 
from  1833  to  1879;  the  present  editors,  not  presuming  to  go  back  over 
any  part  of  the  field  from  which  he  has  garnered,  have  added  from  his 
later  publications  a  choice  handful  of  short  poems,  mainly  lyrical,  be- 
ginning with  the  second  series  of  'Dramatic  Idyls,'  1880,  and  closing 
with  the  final  volume,  'Asolando,'  1889,  which  was  published  in  Lon- 
don on  the  day  of  Browning's  death  in  Venice. 

Care  has  been  taken  to  give  with  accuracy  Browning's  own  latest 
revised  text  of  1888,  1889;  also,  to  make  the  Introduction  and  Notes 
rich  in  small  space.  In  making  the  aesthetic  part  of  the  Notes,  the 
aim  has  been  neither  to  paraphrase,  nor  to  give  comment  about  the 
poems,  but  to  epitomize  the  gist  of  each  one,  or,  at  most,  where 
the  poem  demanded  such  treatment,  to  summarize  its  leading  traits 
and  show  its  outcome.  Such  a  procedure  seemed  especially  appro- 
priate to  this  volume  which  Browning  intended  should  offer  the  public 
a  representative  view  of  his  poetic  domain,  and  the  editors  hope  this 
part  of  their  work  will  especially  commend  itself.  They  believe  the 
Notes  will  also  be  found  to  shed  light  on  many  allusions  not  before 
explained. 

Finally,  they  desire  to  acknowledge  with  cordial  gratitude  their  in- 
debtedness to  the  work  of  their  predecessors,  especially  to  Mrs.  Orr, 
Professor  Hiram  Corson,  Mr.  George  Willis  Cooke,  Dr.  Edward  Berdoe, 
Dr.  W.  J.  Rolfe,  and  Miss  Hersey  for  help  in  allusions  ;  and  to  Mrs.  Orr, 
Mr.  William  Sharpe,  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  and  Mr.  W.  G.  Kingsland, 
from  whom  the  materials  for  the  biographical  sketch  were  drawn ;  also 
to  the  Boston  Browning  Society,  whose  collection  of  first  editions  was 
consulted  in  compiling  the  bibliography. 

BOSTON,  May  20,  1896. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


"A  peep  through  my  window,  if  folk  prefer; 

But,  please  you,  no  foot  over  threshold  of  mine."  — '  HOUSE.' 

WHEN  some  depredator  of  the  familiar  declared  that  "  Only  in 
Italy  is  there  any  romance  left,"  Browning  replied,  "Ah!  well,  I 
should  like  to  include  poor  old  Camberwell,"  and  "  poor  old  Camber- 
well,"  where  Robert  Browning  was  born,  May  7,  1812,  offered  no  meagre 
nurture  for  the  fancy  of  a  child  gifted  \vith  the  ardor  that  greatens  and 
glorifies  the  real. 

Nature  still  garlanded  this  suburban  part  of  London  with  bowery 
spaces  breathing  peace.  The  view  of  the  region  from  Herne  Hill  over 
softly  wreathing  distances  of  domestic  wood  "  was.  before  railroads  came, 
entirely  lovely,"  Ruskin  says.  He  writes  of  "  the  tops  of  twenty  square 
miles  of  politely  inhabited  groves,"  of  bloom  of  lilac  and  laburnum  and  of 
almond-blossoms,  intermingling  suggestions  of  the  wealth  of  fruit-trees  in 
enclosed  gardens,  and  companioning  all  this  with  the  furze,  birch,  oak, 
and  bramble  of  the  Norwood  hills,  and  the  open  fields  of  Dulwich  "  ani- 
mate with  cow  and  buttercup." 

Nature  was  ready  to  beckon  the  young  poet  to  dreams  and  solitude, 
and,  too  close  to  need  to  vie  with  her,  the  great  city  was  at  hand  to 
make  her  power  intimately  felt.  From  a  height  crowned  by  three  large 
elms.  Browning,  as  a  lad,  used  to  enjoy  the  picturesqueness  of  his  "poor 
old  Camberwell."  Its  heart  of  romance  was  centred  for  him  in  the 
sight  of  the  vast  city  lying  to  the  westward.  His  memory  singled  out 
one  such  visit  as  peculiarly  significant,  the  first  one  on  which  he  beheld 
teeming  London  by  night,  and  heard  the  vague  confusion  of  her  collec- 
tive voice  beneath  the  silence  of  the  stars. 

Within  the  home  into  which  he  was  born,  equally  well-poised  condi- 
tions befriended  him,  fostering  the  development  of  his  emotional  and 
intellectual  nature.  His  mother  was  once  described  by  Carlyle  as  "the 
true  type  of  a  Scottish  gentlewoman."  Browning  himself  used  to  say  of 


xii  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

her  "with  tremulous  emotion,"  according  to  his  friend,  Mrs.  Orr,  "sk 
was  a  divine  woman."  Her  gentle,  deeply  religious  nature  evidently 
derived  its  evangelical  tendency  from  her  mother,  also  Scotch  ;  while 
from  her  father,  William  Wiedemann,  ship-owner,  a  Hamburg  German, 
settled  in  Dundee,  who  was  an  accomplished  draughtsman  and  musician, 
she  seems  to  have  derived  the  liking  and  facility  for  music  which  was 
one  of  the  characteristic  bents  of  the  poet.  To  this  Scotch-German 
descent  on  his  mother's  side  the  metaphysical  quality  of  his  mind  is 
accountable,  concerning  which  Harriet  Martineau  is  recorded  as  having 
said  to  him,  "  You  have  no  need  to  study  German  thought,  your  mind  is 
German  enough  already."  The  peculiarly  tender  affection  his  mother 
called  out  in  him  seems  to  have  been  at  once  proof  and  enhancement  of 
the  mystical,  emotional,  and  impressible  side  of  his  disposition;  and 
these  traits  were  founded  on  an  organic  inheritance  from  her  of  "  what 
he  called  a  nervousness  of  nature,"  which  his  father  could  not  have 
bequeathed  to  him. 

Exuberant  vitality,  insatiable  intellectual  curiosity  and  capacity,  the 
characteristics  of  Robert  Browning  the  elder,  were  the  heritage  of  his 
son,  but  raised  in  him  to  a  more  effective  power,  through  their  transmu- 
tation, perhaps,  as  Mrs.  Orr  suggests,  in  the  more  sensitive  physique 
and  temperament  inherited  from  his  mother.  Of  his  father,  Browning 
wrote  that  his  "  Powers,  natural  and  acquired,  would  easily  have  made 
him  a  notable  man,  had  he  known  what  vanity  or  ambition  or  the  love 
of  money  or  social  influence  meant."  He  had  refused  to  stay  on  his 
mother's  sugar  plantation  at  St.  Kitt's  in  the  West  Indies,  losing  the 
fortune  to  be  achieved  there,  because  of  his  detestation  of  slavery,  and  the 
office  he  filled  in  the  Bank  of  England  was  never  close  enough  to  his 
liking  to  induce  him  to  rise  in  it  so  far  as  his  father  had  risen ;  but  it 
enabled  him  to  indulge  his  tastes  for  many  books  and  a  few  pictures 
and  to  secure  for  his  son,  as  that  son  said  shortly  before  his  death,  "  all 
the  ease  and  comfort  that  a  literary  man  needs  to  do  good  work." 

One  of  the  poet's  own  early  recollections  gives  a  picture  that  epito- 
mizes the  joint  influence  of  his  happy  parentage.  It  depicts  the  child 
"  sitting  on  his  father's  knees  in  the  library,  listening  with  enthralled 
attention  to  the  tale  of  Troy,  with  marvellous  illustrations  among  the 
glowing  coals  in  the  fireplace ;  with,  below  all,  the  vaguely  heard 
accompaniment  —  from  the  neighboring  room  where  Mrs.  Browning  sat 
'  in  her  chief  happiness,  her  hour  of  darkness  and  solitude  and  music '  — 
of  a  wild  Gaelic  lament." 

His  father's  brain  was  itself  a  library,  stored  with  literary  antiquities 
which,  his  son  used  to  say,  made  him  seem  to  have  known  Paracelsus, 
Faustus,  and  even  Talmudic  personages  personally,  and  his  heart  was 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION*.  xiti 

so  young  and  buoyant  that  his  lore,  instead  of  isolating  him  from  his 
boy  and  girl,  made  him  their  most  entertaining  companion. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  under  such  circumstances  the  ordinary  school- 
ing was  too  puerile  for  young  Robert's  wide-awake  wits.  He  was  so 
energetic  in  mind  and  body  that  he  was  sent  to  a  day-school  near  by 
for  peace1  sake  at  an  early  age,  and  sent  back  again,  for  peace1  sake,  too, 

because  his  proficiency  made  the  mammas  complain  that  Mrs. was 

neglecting  her  other  pupils  for  the  sake  of  bringing  on  Master  Browning. 
Home  teaching  followed.  Also  home  amusement,  which  included  the 
keeping  of  a  variety  of  pets,  —  owls,  monkeys,  magpies,  hedgehogs,  an 
eagle,  a  toad,  and  two  snakes.  If  any  further  proof  is  needed  of  the 
hospitable  warmth  of  his  youthful  heart,  an  entry  in  his  diary  at  the 
age  of  seven  or  eight  may  serve  —  "  married  two  wives  this  morning.11 
This  referred,  of  course,  to  an  imaginary  appropriation  of  two  girls  he 
bad  just  seen  in  charch. 

Later  he  entered  the  school  of  the  Misses  Ready  and  passed  thence 
to  their  brother's  school,  staying  there  till  he  was  fourteen,  but  his  con- 
tempt for  the  petty  and  formal  learning  which  is  the  best  accorded 
many  children,  was  marked,  and  perfectly  natural  to  a  boy  who  delighted 
to  plunge  in  the  deeper  knowledge  his  father's  book-crammed  house 
opened  generously  to  him. 

In  the  list,  given  by  Mrs.  Orr,  of  books  early  attractive  to  him,  were 
a  seventeenth  edition  of  Quarles's '  Emblems ' ;  first  editions  of '  Robinson 
Crusoe,'  and  Milton  ;  the  original  pamphlet. '  Killing  no  Murder'  (1559) 
which  Carlyle  borrowed  for  his  '  Cromwell ' ;  an  early  edition  of  the 
'  Bees '  by  the  Bernard  Mandeville,  with  whom  he  was  destined  later  to 
hold  a  '  Parleying '  of  his  own  ;  rare  old  Bibles ;  Voltaire  ;  a  wide  range 
of  English  poetry;  the  Greek  and  Elizabethan  dramatists. 

His  father's  profound  love  of  poetry  was  essentially  classic,  and  his 
marked  aptitude  in  rhyming  followed  the  models  of  Pope,  but  Brown- 
ing's early  poet  was  Byron,  and  all  his  sympathies  were  warmly  roman- 
tic. His  verse-making,  which  began  before  he  could  write,  resulted  at 
twelve  in  a  volume  of  short  poems,  presumably  Byronic,  which  he 
gracefully  entitled  '  Incondita.' 

He  wanted,  in  vain,  to  find  a  publisher  for  this,  and  soon  afterwards 
destroyed  it,  but  not  before  his  mother  had  shown  it  to  Miss  Flower, 
and  she,  to  her  sister,  Sarah  Flower,  and  to  Mr.  Fox,  and  the  budding 
poet  had  thus  gained  the  attention  of  three  genuine  friends. 

Shortly  after  this,  the  Byronic  star  which  had  shed  its  somewhat 
lurid  influence  over  the  first  ebullitions  of  his  genius,  was  forever  ban- 
ished by  the  appearance  of  a  new  star  within  his  field  of  vision.  In- 
credible as  it  may  seem  to  the  present  generation,  he  had  never  heard 


xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

of  Shelley,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  happy  chance,  an  important  in- 
fluence in  the  early  shaping  of  his  poetic  faculties  might  have  been 
postponed  until  too  late  to  furnish  its  quickening  impulse. 

One  day  in  passing  a  book-stall,  he  happened  to  see  advertised  in  a 
box  of  second-hand  wares  a  little  book,  -Mr.  Shelley's  Atheistical 
Poems:'  very  scarce.  Though  the  little  second-hand  volume  was 
only  a  miserable  pirated  edition,  by  its  means  such  entrancing  glimpses 
Df  an  unsuspected  wcrid  were  revealed  to  the  boy  that  he  longed  to 
possess  more  of  Shelley.  His  mother,  accordingly,  sallied  forth  in  search 
of  Shelley's  poems,  which,  after  many  tribulations,  she  at  length  found  at 
C.  and  J.  Ollier's  of  Vere  Street.  She  brought  away  not  only  nearly  all 
of  Shelley  in  first  editions  (the  '  Cenci '  excepted),  but  three  volumes 
of  Keats,  whom  she  was  assured  would  interest  anybody  who  liked 
Shelley.  Browning,  himself,  used  to  recall  how,  at  the  end  of  this 
eventful  day,  two  nightingales,  one  in  the  laburnum  at  the  end  of  his 
father's  garden,  and  one  in  a  copper  beech  in  the  next  garden,  sang  ir 
emulation  of  the  poets  whose  music  had  laid  its  subtile  spell  upon  him 
While  Keats  was  duly  appreciated,  it  was  Shelley  who  appealed  most 
to  Browning,  and  although  it  was  some  years  before  any  poetic  mani- 
festation of  Shelley's  influence  was  to  work  itself  out,  he,  with  youthful 
ardor,  at  once  adopted  the  crude  attitude  taken  by  Shelley  in  his 
immature  work  'Queen  Mab,'  became  a  professing  atheist,  and  even 
went  so  far  as  to  practise  vegetarianism,  of  which,  however,  he  was  soon 
cured  because  of  its  unpleasant  effect  on  his  eyesight.  Of  his  atheism 
Mrs.  Orr  says,  "  His  mind  was  not  so  constituted  that  such  doubt  fast- 
ened itself  upon  it ;  nor  did  he  ever  in  after  life  speak  of  this  period  of 
negation  except  as  an  access  of  boyish  folly,  with  which  his  mature  self 
could  have  no  concern.  The  return  to  religious  belief  did  not  shake 
his  faith  in  his  new  prophet.  It  only  made  him  willing  to  admit  that 
he  had  misread  him.  This  period  of  Browning's  life  remained,  never- 
theless, one  of  rebellion  and  unrest,  to  which  many  circumstances  may 
?ave  contributed  besides  the  influence  of  one  mind." 

With  the  exception  of  the  poetic  awakening  just  recorded,  Brown- 
.ng's  youthful  life  is  uneventful. 

By  his  father's  decision  his  education  was  continued  at  home  with 
instruction  in  dancing,  riding,  boxing,  fencing ;  in  French  with  a  tutor 
for  two  years ;  and  in  music  with  John  Relfe  for  theory,  and  a  Mr.  Abel, 
pupil  of  Me — ^eles,  for  execution,  doubtless  supplemented  with  contin- 
uous browsing  among  the  rare  books  in  his  father's  library.  At  eighteen 
he  attended  a  Greek  class  at  the  London  University  for  a  term  or  two 
and  with  this  his  formal  education  ceased.  It  was  while  at  the  uni- 
versity that  his  final  choice  of  poetry  as  his  future  profession  was  made. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION:  xv 

That  he  had  a  bent  in  other  artistic  directions  as  well  as  that  of  poetry 
is  witnessed  by  his  own  confession  written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  first 
edition  of  •  Pauline '  now  treasured  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum. 
" '  Pauline '  written  in  pursuance  of  a  foolish  plan  I  forget,  or  have  no 
wish  to  remember;  involving  the  assumption  of  several  distinct 
characters :  the  world  was  never  to  guess  that  such  an  opera,  such  a 
comedy,  such  a  speech  proceeded  from  the  same  notable  person." 

Some  idea  had  been  entertained  of  the  possibility  of  Robert's  quali- 
fying himself  for  the  bar,  but  Mr.  Browning  was  entirely  too  much  in 
sympathy  with  his  son's  interests  to  put  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his 
choice,  and  did  everything  in  his  power  to  help  him  in  establishing 
himself  in  his  poetical  career.  When  the  decision  was  made,  Brown- 
ing's first  step  was  to  read  and  digest  the  whole  of  Johnson's  Dictionary. 

During  these  years  of  preparation  his  consciousness  of  his  own  latent 
powers,  together  with  youthful  immaturity,  made  him,  from  all  accounts, 
a  somewhat  obstreperous  personage.  Mrs.  Orr  says  that  his  mother 
was  much  distressed  at  his  impatience  and  aggressiveness.  "  He  set 
the  judgments  of  those  about  him  at  defiance,  and  gratuitously  pro- 
claimed himself  everything  that  he  was  and  some  things  that  he  was 
not."  It  is  probable,  as  his  sister  suggests,  that  the  life  of  Camberwell, 
in  spite  of  the  dear  home  to  which  he  was  much  attached,  and  a  small 
coterie  of  congenial  friends,  including  his  cousins,  the  Silverthornes, 
and  Alfred  Domett,  did  not  afford  sufficient  scope  for  the  expansion  of 
his  eager  intelligence. 

In  1833  appeared  the  first  flowering  of  his  genius  in  l  Pauline,'  for  the 
publication  of  which  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Silverthorne,  furnished  the  money. 
It  was  printed  with  no  name  affixed,  by  Saunders  and  Otley. 

The  influence  of  Shelley  breathes  through  this  poem ;  not  only  is  it 
immanent  in  the  music  of  the  verse,  but  in  its  general  atmosphere, 
while  one  of  its  finest  climaxes  is  the  apostrophe  to  Shelley  beginning, 
"  Sun-treader,  life  and  light  be  thine  forever  ! "  These  influences, 
however,  are  commingled  with  elements  of  striking  originality  indi- 
cating, in  spite  of  some  crudities  of  construction,  that  here  was  a  new 
force  in  the  poetic  world.  Not  many  recognized  it  at  the  time.  Among 
those  who  did  was  his  former  friend,  Mr.  Fox,  then  editor  of  the  Monthly 
Repository,  who  gave  (  Pauline  '  a  sympathetic  review  in  his  magazine. 
Later,  another  article  praising  it  was  printed  in  the  same  magazine. 
This  and  one  or  two  other  inadequate  notices  ended  its  early  literary 
history,  and  thus  was  unassumingly  planted  the  first  seed  of  one  of  the 
most  splendid  poetical  growths  the  world  has  seen.  How  completely 
•  Pauline '  was  forgotten  is  shown  by  the  anecdote  told  of  Rossetti's 
coming  across  it  in  the  British  Museum  twenty  years  later,  and  guess- 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  from  internal  evidence  that  it  was  by  the  author  of  '  Paracelsus.' 
Delighted  with  it,  he  transcribed  it.  If  he  had  not,  it  might  have 
remained  buried  there  to  this  day,  for  Browning  was  very  loath  to 
acknowledge  this  early  child  of  his  genius. 

A  journey  to  Russia  at  the  invitation  of  the  Russian  consul-general, 
Mr.  Benckhausen,  with  whom  he  went  as  nominal  secretary,  and  the 
contribution  to  the  Monthly  Repository  of  five  short  poems  fills  up  the 
time  until  the  appearance  of 'Paracelsus.1  Most  remarkable  among 
these  short  poems  were  '  Porphyria's  Lover '  and  '  Johannes  Agricola  in 
Meditation,'  of  which  Mr.  Gosse  says,  "  It  is  a  curious  matter  for  reflec- 
tion that  two  poems  so  unique  in  their  construction  and  conception,  so 
modern,  so  interesting,  so  new  could  be  printed  without  attracting  atten- 
tion so  far  as  it  would  appear  from  any  living  creature." 

Paracelsus  was  suggested  as  a  subject  to  Browning  by  Count  de  Ripert 
Monclar,  a  young  French  Royalist,  who,  while  spending  his  summers  in 
England,  formed  a  friendship  with  the  poet.  The  absence  of  love  in 
the  story  seemed  to  him  aftenvards  a  drawback,  but  Browning,  having 
read  up  the  literature  of  Paracelsus  at  the  British  Museum,  decided  to 
follow  his  friend's  suggestion  and  according  to  promise  dedicated  the 
poem  to  Count  Monclar. 

In  the  days  when  he  was  writing  '  Paracelsus '  Browning  was  fond  of 
drawing  inspiration  from  midnight  rambles  in  the  Dulwich  woods,  and 
he  used  often  to  compose  in  the  open  air.  Here  we  may  perhaps  find 
an  explanation  of  the  fact  that  in  these  earlier  poems  there  is  a  constant 
interfusion  of  nature  imagery  which,  later,  when  the  poet  "fared  up  and 
down  amid  men,"  gave  place  to  the  human  emotions  upon  which  his 
thoughts  became  concentred,  or  appeared  only  at  rare  intervals. 

Mr.  Fox,  always  ready  to  praise  the  young  poet  whom  he  had  been 
the  first  to  recognize,  was  upon  the  publication  of  '  Paracelsus ' 
seconded  by  John  Forster,  who  wrote  an  appreciative  article  about  it  in 
the  Examiner. 

If  '  Paracelsus '  did  not  win  popularity,  it  gained  the  poet  many 
friends  among  the  literary  men  of  the  day.  From  this  period  dates  the 
acquaintanceship  of  notabilities  like  Serjeant  Talfourd,  Home,  Leigh 
Hunt,  Barry  Cornwall,  Harriet  Martineau,  Miss  Mitford,  Monckton 
Milnes,  Dickens,  Wordsworth,  Landor,  and  others.  The  most  impor- 
tant in  its  consequences  of  his  new  friendships  was  that  begun  with  the 
celebrated  actor  William  Macready,  to  whom  he  was  introduced  by 
Mr.  Fox.  Macready,  delighted  with  Browning,  shortly  after  asked  him 
to  a  New  Year's  party  at  his  house  at  Elstree. 

Every  one  who  met  the  poet  seemed  attracted  by  his  personality. 
Macready  said  he  looked  more  like  a  youthful  poet  than  any  man  he 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

had  ever  seen.  Mr.  Sharpe's  description  of  him  from  hearsay  is  more 
definite.  As  a  young  man  he  appears  to  have  had  a  certain  ivory  deli- 
cacy of  coloring.  He  appeared,  taller  than  he  was,  partly  because  of 
his  rare  grace  of  movement  and  partly  from  a  characteristic  high  poise 
of  the  head  when  listening  intently  to  music  or  conversation.  Even 
then  he  had  the  expressive  wave  of  the  hand  which  in  later  years  was 
as  full  of  various  meanings  as  the  Ecco  of  an  Italian. 

A  swift  alertness  pervaded  him  noticeably  as  much  in  the  rapid 
change  of  expression,  in  the  deepening  and  illuming  colors  of  his 
singularly  expressive  eyes,  and  in  his  sensitive  mouth  as  in  his  grey- 
hound-like apprehension,  which  so  often  grasped  the  subject  in  its 
entirety  before  its  propounder  himself  realized  its  significance.  His 
hair  —  then  of  a  brown  so  dark  as  to  appear  black  —  was  so  beautiful 
in  its  heavy,  sculpturesque  waves  as  frequently  to  attract  attention. 
His  voice  then  had  a  rare  flute-like  tone,  clear,  sweet,  and  resonant. 

The  influence  of  Macready  turned  the  poet's  thoughts  toward  writing 
for  the  stage.  A  drama,  'Narses,1  was  discussed,  but  for  some  reason 
abandoned,  and  the  subject  of  Strafford  was  decided  upon  in  its  place. 

The  occasion  upon  which  the  decision  was  made  gives  an  attractive 
glimpse  of  the  young  Browning  receiving  his  first  social  honor.  It  was 
at  a  dinner  at  Talfourd's  after  the  performance  of  '  Ion,'  in  which  Mac- 
ready  acted.  Mr.  Sharpe  says  :  — 

"  To  his  surprise  and  gratification,  Browning  found  himself  placed 
next  but  one  to  his  host  and  immediately  opposite  Macready,  who  sat  be- 
tween two  gentlemen,  one  calm  as  a  summer  evening,  the  other  with  a 
tempestuous  youth  dominating  his  sixty  years,  whom  the  young  poet 
at  once  recognized  as  Wordsworth  and  Walter  Savage  Landor.  When 
Talfourd  rose  to  propose  the  toast  of  '  The  Poets  of  England,'  every  one 
probably  expected  that  Wordsworth  would  be  named  to  respond ;  but 
with  a  kindly  grace,  the  host,  after  flattering  remarks  upon  the  two 
great  men  then  honoring  him  by  sitting  at  his  table,  coupled  his  toast 
with  the  name  of  the  youngest  of  the  poets  of  England,  Mr.  Robert 
Browning,  the  author  of  '  Paracelsus.'  According  to  Miss  Mitford,  he 
responded  with  grace  and  modesty,  looking  even  younger  than  he  was." 

The  conversation  turning  upon  the  drama,  Macready  said,  "  Write  a 
play,  Browning,  and  keep  me  from  going  to  America."  The  reply  came, 
"  Shall  it  be  historical  and  English  ?  What  do  you  say  to  a  drama  on 
Strafford?" 

'  Sordello '  had  already  been  begun,  but '  Strafford  '  and  a  journey  to 
Italy  were  to  intervene  before  it  was  finished.  'Strafford'  was  per- 
formed at  Covent  Garden,  May  I,  1837,  with  Macready  as  Strafford  and 
Helen  Faucit  as  Lady  Carlisle,  was  well  received,  and  would  probably 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

have  had  a  long  run  had  it  not  been  for  difficulties  which  arose  in  the 
theatre  management. 

If  Shelley  was  the  paramount  influence  of  his  youthful  years,  from 
the  time  of  his  Italian  journey  in  1838,  Italy  became  an  influence  which 
was  henceforth  to  exert  its  magic  over  his  work.  He  liked  to  call  Italy 
his  university.  In  '  Sordello '  he  had  already  chosen  an  Italian  subject, 
and  his  journey  was  undertaken  partly  with  the  idea  of  gaining  personal 
experience  of  the  scenes  wherein  the  tragedy  of  Sordello's  soul  was 
enacted. 

It  was  published  in  1840,  and  except  for  a  notice  in  the  Eclectic  Re- 
view, and  the  appreciation  of  a  few  friends,  was  ignored.  A  world  not 
over  sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  his  previous  work,  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  welcome  enthusiastically  a  poem  so  complex  in  its  his- 
torical setting  and  so  full  of  philosophy.  Even  the  keenest  intellects 
approach  this  poem  with  the  feeling  that  they  are  about  to  attack  a 
problem :  for  in  spite  of  undoubted  power  and  many  beauties,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  luxuriance  of  the  poet's  mental  force  often  unduly 
overbalances  his  sense  of  artistic  proportion.  Evidently  the  world  was 
frightened.  The  little  breeze,  with  which  Browning's  career  began, 
instead  of  developing  as  it  normally  should  into  a  strong  wind  of  uni- 
versal recognition,  died  out,  and  for  twenty  years  nothing  he  could  do 
seemed  to  win  for  him  his  just  deserts,  though  his  very  next  poem, 
'  Pippa  Passes,'  showed  him  already  a  consummate  master  of  his  forces 
both  on  the  artistic  side  and  in  the  special  realm  which  he  chose,  the 
development  of  the  soul. 

'  Pippa  Passes,'  '  King  Victor  and  King  Charles,'  and  '  The  Return  of 
the  Druses '  lay  in  his  desk  for  some  time  without  a  publisher.  He 
finally  arranged  with  Edward  Moxon  to  bring  them  out  in  pamphlet 
form,  using  cheap  type,  each  issue  to  consist  of  a  sixteen-page  form, 
printed  in  double  columns.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the  now  cele- 
brated series,  '  Bells  and  Pomegranates.'  They  were  issued  from  1841 
to  1846,  and  included  all  the  dramas  and  a  number  of  short  poems. 

The  only  one  of  these  poems  with  a  story  other  than  literary,  is  '  The 
Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,'  written  for  Macready,  and  performed  at  Drury 
Lane,  on  February  11,  1843.  A  favorite  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the 
Philistines  has  been  the  often  reiterated  statement  that  the  performance 
was  a  failure.  A  letter  from  Browning  to  Mr.  Hill,  editor  of  the  Daily 
News,  at  the  time  of  the  revival  of  '  The  Blot '  by  Lawrence  Barrett 
in  1 884,  drawn  out  by  the  same  old  falsehood,  gives  the  truth  in  regard 
to  the  matter,  and  should  silence  once  for  all  the  ubiquitous  Philis- 
tines. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XJX 

'<  Macreacfy  received  and  accepted  the  play,  while  he  was  engaged  at 
the  Haymarket,  and  retained  it  for  Drury  Lane,  of  which  I  was  ignorant 
that  he  was  about  to  become  the  manager :  he  accepted  it  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  nobody.  .  .  .  When  the  Drury  Lane  season  began,  Macready 
informed  me  that  he  would  act  the  play  when  he  had  brought  out  two 
others,  —  'The  Patrician's  Daughter'  and  'Plighted  Troth.'  Having 
done  'so,  he  wrote  to  me  that  the  former  had  been  unsuccessful  in  money- 
drawing,  and  the  latter  had  '  smashed  his  arrangements  altogether' :  but 
he  would  still  produce  my  play.  In  my  ignorance  of  certain  symptoms 
better  understood  by  Macready's  professional  acquaintances  —  I  had  no 
notion  that  it  was  a  proper  thing,  in  such  a  case,  to  release  him  from 
his  promise ;  on  the  contrary,  I  should  have  fancied  that  such  a  pro- 
posal was  offensive.  Soon  after,  Macready  begged  that  I  would  call  on 
him :  he  said  the  play  had  been  read  to  the  actors  the  day  before,  'and 
laughed  at  from  beginning  to  end ' ;  on  my  speaking  my  mind  about 
this,  he  explained  that  the  reading  had  been  done  by  the  prompter,  a 
grotesque  person  with  a  red  nose  and  wooden  leg,  ill  at  ease  in  the  love 
scenes,  and  that  he  would  himself  make  amends  by  reading  the  play 
next  morning,  —  which  he  did,  and  very  adequately,  —  but  apprised  me 
that  in  consequence  of  the  state  of  his  mind,  harassed  by  business  and 
various  troubles,  the  principal  character  must  be  taken  by  Mr.  Phelps  ; 
and  again  I  failed  to  understand,  .  .  .  that  to  allow  at  Macready's  the- 
atre any  other  than  Macready  to  play  the  principal  part  in  a  new  piece 
was  suicidal,  and  really  believed  I  was  meeting  his  exigencies  by  accept- 
ing the  substitute.  At  the  rehearsal.  Macready  announced  that  Mr. 
Phelps  was  ill,  and  that  he  himself  would  read  the  part :  on  the  third 
rehearsal,  Mr.  Phelps  appeared  for  the  first  time  .  .  .  while  Macready 
more  than  read,  rehearsed  the  part.  The  next  morning  Mr.  Phelps 
waylaid  me  to  say  .  .  .  that  Macready  would  play  Tresham  on  the 
ground  that  himself,  Phelps,  was  unable  to  do  so.  .  .  .  He  added  that 
he  could  not  expect  me  to  waive  such  an  advantage,  —  but  that  if  I  were 
prepared  to  waive  it. '  he  would  take  ether,  sit  up  all  night,  and  have  the 
words  in  his  memory  by  next  day.'  I  bade  him  follow  me  to  the  green- 
room, and  hear  what  I  decided  upon  —  which  was  that  as  Macready  had 
given  him  the  part,  he  should  keep  it :  this  was  on  a  Thursday ;  he  re- 
hearsed on  Friday  and  Saturday,  —  the  play  being  acted  the  same  even- 
ing, —  of  the  fifth  day  after  the  '  reading'1  by  Macready.  Macready  at 
once  wished  to  reduce  the  importance  of  the  play  .  .  .  tried  to  leave 
out  so  much  of  the  text,  that  I  baffled  him  by  getting  it  printed  in  four 
and  twenty  hours,  by  Moxon's  assistance.  He  wanted  me  to  call  it '  The 
Sister!'  —  and  I  have  before  me  ...  the  stage-acting  copy,  with  two 
lines  of  his  own  insertion  to  avoid  the  tragical  ending  —  Tresham  was 
to  announce  his  intention  of  going  into  a  monastery!  all  this,  to  keep 
up  the  belief  that  Macready,  and  Macready  alone,  could  produce  a  veri- 
table '  tragedy '  unproduced  before.  Not  a  shilling  was  spent  on  scen- 
ery or  dresses.  If  your  critic  considers  this  treatment  of  the  play  an 
instance  of '  the  failure  of  powerful  and  experienced  actors '  to  insure  its 
success,  —  I  can  only  say  that  my  own  opinion  was  shown  by  at  once 


xx  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

breaking  off  a  friendship  .  .  .  which  had  a  right  to  be  plainly  and 
simply  told  that  the  play  I  had  contributed  as  a  proof  of  it  would,  through 
a  change  of  circumstances,  no  longer  be  to  my  friend's  advantage.  .  .  . 
Only  recently,  .  .  .  when  the  extent  of  his  pecuniary  embarrassments 
at  that  time  was  made  known,  could  I  in  a  measure  understand  his  mo- 
tives—  less  than  ever  understand  why  he  so  strangely  disguised  them. 
If '  applause,'  means  success,  the  play  thus  maimed  and  maltreated  was 
successful  enough  ;  it  '  made  way '  for  Macready's  own  Benefit  and  the 
theatre  closed  a  fortnight  after." 

Browning's  second  visit  to  Italy  took  place  in  the  autumn  of  1844,  from 
which  he  returned  to  meet  with  the  supreme  spiritual  influence  of  his 
life.  '  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship '  had  just  been  published,  and  Brown- 
ing expressing  his  enthusiasm  for  it  to  Mr.  Kenyon,  a  dear  friend  of  his 
and  a  cousin  of  Miss  Barrett's,  the  latter  immediately  suggested  that 
Browning  should  write  and  tell  her  of  his  delight  in  it.  The  corre- 
spondence soon  developed  into  a  meeting  which  was  at  first  refused  by 
Miss  Barrett  in  a  few  self-depreciative  words,  "  There  is  nothing  to  see 
in  me,  nothing  to  hear  in  me,  I  am  a  weed  fit  for  the  ground  and  dark- 
ness." 

Mr.  Browning's  fate  was  sealed  at  the  first  meeting,  we  are  told,  but 
Miss  Barrett,  conscious  of  the  obstacle  offered  by  her  ill-health,  was  not 
easily  won,  and  only  consented,  at  last,  with  the  proviso  that  their 
marriage  should  depend  upon  improvement  in  her  health. 

Though  the  new  joy  in  her  life  seemed  to  give  her  fresh  strength,  her 
doctor  told  her,  in  the  summer  of  1846,  that  her  only  hope  of  recovery 
depended  upon  her  spending  the  coming  winter  in  Italy.  Her  father 
having  absolutely  refused  to  hear  of  such  a  course,  she  was  persuaded 
to  consent  to  a  private  marriage  with  Mr.  Browning,  which  took  place 
on  September  12,  1846,  at  St.  Pancras  Church.  A  week  later  they 
started  for  Italy.  Mrs.  Orr  writes  :  — 

"In  the  late  afternoon  or  evening  of  September  19,  Mrs.  Browning, 
attended  by  her  maid  and  her  dog,  stole  away  from  her  father's  house. 
The  family  were  at  dinner,  at  which  meal  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
joining  them ;  her  sisters,  Henrietta  and  Arabel,  had  been  throughout 
in  the  secret  of  her  attachment  and  in  full  sympathy  with  it ;  in  the 
case  of  the  servants  she  was  also  sure  of  friendly  connivance.  There 
was  no  difficulty  in  her  escape,  but  that  created  by  the  dog,  which  might 
be  expected  to  bark  its  consciousness  of  the  unusual  situation.  She 
took  him  into  her  confidence.  She  said, '  O  Flush,  if  you  make  a  sound, 
I  am  lost.'  And  Flush  understood,  as  what  good  dog  would  not,  and 
crept  after  his  mistress  in  silence." 

Mr.  Barrett  never  forgave  her  and  never  saw  her  again.  The  sur- 
prise and  consternation  of  Mr.  Browning's  family  was  soon  transformed 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

,nto  love  for  Mrs.  Browning,  while  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  had  not  been  told 
because,  as  Mrs.  Browning  said,  she  did  not  wish  to  implicate  any  one 
in  the  deception  she  was  obliged  to  practise  against  her  father,  was 
overjoyed  at  the  result  of  his  kindly  offices  in  bringing  the  two  poets 
together. 

After  a  journey  full  of  suffering  for  Mrs.  Browning  and  the  tenderest 
devotion  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Browning,  they  halted  at  Pisa,  memorable 
as  the  spot  where  Mrs.  Browning  presented  her  husband  with  the 
matchless  '  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.'  Mrs.  Browning's  health  im- 
proved greatly  in  the  genial  climate.  The  whole  of  their  married 
life,  with  the  exception  of  occasional  summers  in  England  and  two 
winters  in  Paris,  was  spent  in  Italy,  and  what  that  married  life  was  in 
its  harmonious  blending  of  two  unusually  congenial  souls  we  have 
abundant  evidence  in  the  glimpses  obtained  from  Mrs.  Browning's  let- 
ters, and  the  recollections  of  it  in  the  minds  of  their  many  friends. 

In  the  summer  of  1847  they  established  themselves  in  Florence  in 
the  Casa  Guidi.  It  became  practically  their  Italian  home,  varied  by 
sojourns  in  Ancona,  at  the  baths  of  Lucca,  Venice,  and  winters  in 
Rome  in  1854  and  1859. 

In  Florence,  March  9,  1849,  tne""  son  was  born,  and  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's life,  especially,  was  added  one  more  element  of  intense  happiness. 
Mrs.  Orr  thinks  that  in  Pompilia  in  l  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  is  reflected 
the  maternal  joy  as  Browning  saw  it  revealed  in  Mrs.  Browning's  rela- 
tion to  her  son.  A  shadow  was  at  the  same  time  cast  over  Browning's 
life  by  the  death  of  his  mother,  who  died  just  as  the  news  was  received 
of  the  birth  of  her  grandchild.  Mrs.  Browning,  writing  to  a  friend, 
said,  "My  husband  has  been  in  the  greatest  anguish.  .  .  .  He  has 
loved  his  mother  as  such  passionate  natures  only  can  love,  and  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  bowed  down  in  an  extremity  of  sorrow,  —  never." 

The  first  effect  of  Browning's  marriage  seems  to  have  been  to  put  his 
muse  to  sleep.  Up  to  1850  the  only  events  in  his  literary  career  were 
the  performance  of  '  The  Blot '  at  Sadler's  Wells  in  1848,  and  the  issue 
of  a  collected  edition  of  his  works  in  1849.  In  1850,  in  Florence,  he 
wrote '  Christmas  Eve '  and  *  Easter  Day,'  and  in  Paris,  1857,  the  '  Essay 
on  Shelley '  to  be  prefixed  to  twenty-five  letters  of  Shelley's,  that  after- 
wards turned  out  to  be  spurious. 

The  fifty  poems  in  ;  Men  and  Women  '  complete  the  record  of  Brown- 
ing's work  during  his  wife's  life.  They  appeared  in  1855,  and  reflect 
very  directly  new  sources  of  inspiration  which  had  come  into  his  life 
with  his  marriage. 

Though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning  led  a  comparatively  quiet  life,  they 
gathered  around  them,  wherever  they  were,  a  distinguished  circle  of 


xxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

friends.  In  the  early  days  at  Florence,  they  much  enjoyed  the  society 
of  .Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli.  Joseph  Milsand  and  George  Sand  —  the 
first  a  cherished  friend,  the  last  simply  an  acquaintance  —  connect 
themselves  with  their  life  in  Paris,  while  in  London  and  Rome  all  the 
bright  particular  stars  of  the  time  circled  about  them,  some  of  whom 
were  the  Storys,  the  Hawthornes,  the  Carlyles,  the  Kemble  sisters,  Car- 
dinal Manning,  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  Rossetti,  VTal  Princeps,  and 
Landor. 

Mrs.  Browning's  death  at  dawn,  on  the  2gth  of  June,  1861,  cut  short 
the  golden  period  of  these  Italian  days.  Even  in  his  bereavement  he 
had  cause  to  be  poignantly  happy-  For  he  had  watched  beside  his 
wife  on  that  last  night,  and  she,  weak,  though  suffering  little  and  with- 
out presentiment  of  the  end  which  even  to  him  seemed  not  so  immi- 
nent, had  given  him,  as  he  wrote,  —  "  what  my  heart  will  keep  till  I  see 
her  again  and  longer,  —  the  most  perfect  expression  of  her  love  to  me 
within  my  whole  knowledge  of  her."  He  added,  "  I  shall  grow  still.  I 
hope,  but  my  root  is  taken  and  remains."  He  left  Florence  never  to 
return.  His  settling  in  London  that  winter  was  a  result  of  his  wife's 
death,  destined  to  bring  him  into  closer  touch  with  an  English  public 
which  was  to  like  him  yet.  The  change  was  dictated  by  his  care  for 
his  son's  education,  whose  well-being  he  considered  a  trust  from  his  wife. 

In  1862,  he  wrote  from  Biarritz  of '  Pen's'  enjoyment  of  his  holidays, 
adding,  "  for  me  I  have  got  on  by  having  a  great  read  at  Euripides 
besides  attending  to  my  own  matters,  my  new  poem  that  is  about  to  be 
and  of  which  the  whole  is  pretty  well  in  my  head  —  the  Roman  murder 
story."  But  the  Roman  murder  story  was  long  in  taking  shape  as 
<  The  Ring  and  the  Book.'  It  had  been  conceived  in  one  of  his  last 
June  evenings  at  Casa  Guidi,  but  the  rude  break  in  his  life  made  by 
Mrs.  Browning's  death  remains  marked  in  the  record  of  this  work's 
incubation.  During  the  next  years  spent  in  London,  with  holidays  in 
Brittany,  work  went  steadily  on,  first  for  the  three-volume  collected 
edition  of  1863  of  his  works,  and  then  for  'Dramatis  Personae,'  pub- 
lished in  the  year  following,  before  •  The  Ring  and  the  Book '  came  out 
at  last,  in  1868.  With  the  appearance  of  this,  and  the  six-volume 
edition  of  his  works,  the  poet  began  to  reap  the  abundant  fruits  of  a 
slow  but  solidly-founded  fame. 

7t  was  not  until  1871,  however,  that  the  "great  read  at  Euripides" 
showed  its  significance  in  '  Balaustion's  Adventure  '  and  four  years 
later  again,  in  '  Aristophanes1  Apology.'  rounding  out  thus  his  original 
criticism  of  Greek  life  and  literature  and  especially  affecting  '  Euripides 
the  human,'  whom  his  wife  had  been  earliest  to  deliver  from  blunder- 
ing censure. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

While  in  the  midst  of  this  prosperous  scheme  of  work  he  wrote : 
•'  I  feel  such  comfort  and  delight  in  doing  the  best  I  can  with  my  own 
object  of  life,  poetry,  —  which,  I  think,  I  never  could  have  seen  the 
good  of  before,  —  that  it  shows  me  I  have  taken  the  root  I  did  take 
well.  I  hope  to  do  much  more  —  and  that  the  flower  of  it  will  be  put 
into  Her  hand  somehow." 

His  father  had  died  in  Paris  in  1866,  at  the  age  of  eighty-five. 
Brother  and  sister,  now  each  left  alone,  Uved  together  thenceforth  a 
life  of  tranquil  uneventfulness,  alternating  between  London  and  the 
Continent  —  a  life  rich  in  pleasant  acquaintances  and  warm  friendships 
and  increasingly  full  of  invitations  and  honors  of  all  sorts  for  the  poet. 
Supreme  among  the  friendships  was  that  with  Miss  Anne  Egerton 
Smith.  Music  was  the  special  bond  of  sympathy  between  her  and 
Browning,  and  while  they  were  both  in  London  no  important  concert 
lacked  their  appreciation.  Miss  Browning,  her  brother,  and  Miss 
Smith  spent  also  four  successive  summers  together,  the  fourth  at 
Saleve,  near  Geneva,  where  Miss  Smith's  sudden  death  was  the  occasion 
of  Browning's  poem  on  immortality,  '  La  Saisiaz.'  Among  the  honors 
the  poet  received  were  the  organization  of  the  London  Browning 
Society  in  1881,  degrees  from  Oxford  and  from  Cambridge,  and  nomina- 
tions for  the  Rectorship  of  Glasgow  University  and  for  that  of  St. 
Andrews.  The  latter  was  a  unanimous  nomination  from  the  students, 
and  as  an  evidence  of  the  younger  generation's  esteem  of  his  poetic 
influence  was  more  than  commonly  gratifying  to  Browning,  although 
he  declined  this  and  all  other  such  overtures. 

His  activities  during  the  remainder  of  his  days,  his  social  and  friendly 
life  in  London  and  later  in  Venice,  were  habitually  cheerful  and  genial. 
He  sedulously  cultivated  happiness.  This  was  indeed  the  consistent 
result  of  the  fact  to  which  those  who  knew  him  best  bear  witness,  that 
he  held  the  great  lyric  love  of  his  life  as  sacred,  and  cherished  it  as  a 
religion.  Those  who  know  the  whole  body  of  his  work  most  inti- 
mately will  be  readiest  to  corroborate  this  on  subtiler  evidence ;  for 
only  on  the  hypothesis  of  a  unique  revelation  of  the  significance  of 
a  supreme  human  love  from  whose  large  sureness  smaller  dramatic 
exemplifications  of  love  in  life  derive  their  vitality  can  the  varied 
overplay  of  his  art  and  the  deep  sufficiency  of  his  religious  reconcilia- 
tion of  Power  and  Love  be  adequately  understood.  As  he  himself  once 
said,  the  romance  of  his  life  was  in  his  own  soul.  To  this  perhaps  the 
bibliography  of  his  works  will  ever  provide  the  most  accurate  outline 
map. 

After  the  issue  of  his  Greek  pieces,  the  most  noticeable  new  features 
of  his  remaining  work  may  be  summed  up  as  idyllic  and  lyric.  A  new 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION'. 

picturesqueness  interpenetrated  his  dramatic  pieces,  as  if  he  were 
dowered  with  a  fresh  pleasure  in  eyesight.  This  was  shown  in  the 
'Dramatic  Idyls.'  A  new  purity  intensified  his  lyrical  faculty.  This 
is  shown  in  the  lyrics  in  '  Ferishtah's  Fancies  '  and  in  '  Asolando.' 

To  his  whole  achieved  work  add  the  brief  final  record  of  his  content- 
ment in  his  son's  marriage  in  1887,  his  removal  to  the  house  he  bought 
in  De  Vere  Gardens,  the  gradual  weakening  of  his  robust  health  in  his 
last  years,  his  painless  death  in  Venice  in  his  son's  Palazzo  Rezzonico 
on  the  very  day,  December  12,  1889,  of  the  issue  of  'Asolando'  in 
London,  his  burial  in  Westminster  Abbey  in  Poets'  Corner,  December 
31,  and  the  story  of  Robert  Browning's  earthly  life  is  told. 

CHARLOTTE  PORTER. 
HELEN  A.  CLARKE. 
May  20,  1896- 


CRITICAL    INTRODUCTION. 


"  What  were  life 

Did  soul  stand  still  therein,  forego  her  strife 
Through  the  ambiguous  Present  to  the  goal 
Of  some  all-reconciling  Future?" 

—  'PARLEYINGS:    WlTH   GERARD   DE   LAIRESSE.' 

WHAT  principle  guided  Browning  in  making  the  present  Selections 
from  his  poetry  ?  On  this  interesting  question  there  is  no  other 
light  than  the  hint  he  gives  in  his  preface,  that  he  had  strung  together 
certain  pieces  "  on  the  thread  of  an  imaginary  personality,"  and  the 
internal  evidence  which  the  poems  themselves  offer  of  their  suscep 
tibility  to  an  inter- relationship  of  this  sort. 

'  My  Star,1  striking  a  preluding  note  of  love,  seems  to  usher  in  poems 
broadly  capable  of  being  grouped  together  on  the  score  of  their  express- 
ing, in  a  fresh  way,  indicative  of  a  youthful  attitude  toward  life,  various 
phases  of  love,  —  either  as  sensation  or  as  observed  or  recorded  experi- 
ence. Poems  follow  of  a  more  active  sort,  adventurous  and  partisan 
in  spirit,  —  the  '  Good  News,1  the  l  Lost  Leader,1  and  others,  which  be- 
long to  the  outlook  of  manhood ;  and  these  pass  again,  in  subject,  into 
the  groove  of  love,  but  from  the  standpoint,  now,  of  the  stress  and  trial 
belonging  to  maturer  life  and  thought.  Larger  themes  succeed,  related 
to  national  characteristics  and  history,  to  art,  to  music,  to  religion,  and, 
finally,  the  summing  up  of  life^  meanings  natural  to  ripe  vision.  The 
second  series  of  Selections,  made  by  Browning  eight  years  later,  follows, 
in  general,  a  similar  line  of  evolving  thought  and  experience. 

If  it  be  granted  that  some  such  natural  development  of  a  typical 
experience,  not  personal  to  Browning,  underlies  these  Selections,  the 
clue  it  supplies  for  a  brief  critical  consideration  of  the  poefs  distinctive 
traits,  as  shown  throughout  his  work  and  representatively  in  this  vol- 
ume, is  peculiarly  trustworthy  and  appropriate  because  it  is  the  poefs 
own  clue.  He  disclaimed  a  selection  based  on  an  assumption  of  judg- 
ment as  to  what  was  best ;  he  made  a  selection  based  upon  motive 


CRITICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

The  poetic  motive  informing  Browning's  work  is,  in  one  word, 
aspiration,  which  moulds  and  develops  the  varied  and  complex  per- 
sonalities of  the  humanity  he  depicts,  as  the  persistent  energy  of  the 
scientist,  holding  its  never-wearying  way,  gives  to  the  world  of  phe- 
nomena its  infinite  array  of  shows  and  shapes.  Aspiration  —  a  reach- 
ing on  and  upwards  —  is  the  primal  energy  underneath  that  law  which 
we  call  progress.  Through  aspiration,  ideals  —  social,  religious,  artis- 
tic —  are  formed ;  and  through  it  ideals  perish,  as  it  breaks  away  from 
them  to  seek  more  complete  realizations  of  truth.  Aspiration,  there- 
fore, has  its  negative  as  well  as  its  positive  side.  While  it  ever  urges 
the  human  soul  to  love  and  achievement,  through  its  very  persistence 
the  soul  learns  that  the  perfect  flowering  of  its  rare  imaginings  is  not 
possible  of  attainment  in  this  life. 

Assurance  of  the  ultimate  fulfilment  of  the  ideal  is  one  of  the  forms 
in  which  Browning  unfolds  the  workings  of  this  life  principle,  well 
illustrated  in  *  Abt  Vogler,'  who  has  implicit  faith  in  his  own  intuitions 
of  a  final  harmony  ;  or  in  those  poems  where  the  crowning  of  aspiration 
in  a  supreme  earthly  love  flashes  upon  the  understanding  a  clear  vision 
of  infinite  love.  But  by  far  the  larger  number  of  poems  discloses  the 
underlying  force  at  work  in  ways  more  subtle  and  obscure,  through  the 
conflict  of  good  and  evil,  of  lower  with  higher  ideals,  either  as  empha- 
sized in  great  social  movements,  in  the  struggle  between  individuals, 
or  in  struggles  fought  out  on  the  battle-ground  within  every  human  soul. 

With  a  motive  so  all-inclusive,  the  whole  panorama  of  human  life, 
with  its  loves  and  hates,  its  strivings  and  failures,  its  half-reasonings 
and  beguiling  sophistries,  is  material  ready  at  hand  for  illustration. 
Browning,  inspired  with  a  democratic  inclusiveness,  allowed  his  choice 
in  subject-matter  to  range  through  fields  both  new  and  old,  unploughed 
by  any  poet  before  him.  Progress,  to  be  imaged  forth  in  its  entirety, 
must  be  interpreted,  not  only  through  the  individual  soul,  but  through 
the  collective  soul  of  the  human  race ;  wherefore  many  phases  of  civili- 
zation and  many  attitudes  of  mind  must  be  detailed  for  service.  There 
is  no  choosing  a  subject,  as  a  Tennyson  might,  on  the  ground  that  it 
will  best  point  the  moral  of  a  preconceived  theory  of  life  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, every  such  theory  is  bound  to  be  of  interest  as  one  of  the  phe- 
nomena exhibited  by  the  transcending  principle. 

From  first  to  last  Browning  portrayed  life  either  developing  or  at 
some  crucial  moment,  the  outcome  of  past  development,  or  the  deter- 
minative influence  for  future  growth  or  decay. 

His  interest  in  the  phenomena  of  life  as  a  whole,  freed  him  from  the 
trammels  of  any  literary  cult.  He  steps  out  from  under  the  yoke  of 
the  classicist,  where  only  gods  and  heroes  have  leave  to  breathe ;  and 


CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxvii 

equally,  from  that  of  the  romanticist,  where  kings  and  persons  of 
quality  alone  flourish.  Wherever  he  found  latent  possibilities  of  char- 
acter, which  might  be  made  to  expand  under  the  glare  of  his  brilliant 
imagination,  whether  in  hero,  king,  or  knave,  that  being  he  chose  to  set 
before  his  readers  as  a  living  individuality  to  show  whereof  he  was 
made,  either  through  his  own  ruminations  or  through  the  force  of 
circumstances. 

Upon  examination  it  will  be  found  that  the  sources,  many  and  vari- 
ous, of  Browning's  subject-matter  are  broadly  divisible  into  subjects 
derived  from  history,  from  personal  experience  or  biography,  from  true  in- 
cidents, popular  legend,  the  classics,  and  from  his  own  fertile  imagination. 
Of  these,  history  proper  furnishes  the  smallest  proportion.  '  Strafford ' 
and  '  King  Victor  and  King  Charles '  are  his  only  historical  dramas,  and 
with  '  Sordello,'  and  a  few  stray  short  poems,  based  on  historical  inci- 
dents, exhaust  his  drafts  upon  history.  Several  more  have  a  historical 
setting  with  fictitious  plot  and  characters,  such  as  the  '  Return  of  the 
Druses  '  and  '  Luria ' ;  and  still  more  have  a  historical  atmosphere  in 
which  think  and  move  creatures  of  his  own  fancy,  such  as  '  My  Last 
Duchess,'  '  Count  Gismond,'  '  In  A  Gondola.'  His  most  important 
work,  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  is  founded  on  the  true  story  of  a 
Roman  murder  case.  Others  of  his  longer  poems,  developed  from  real 
occurrences,  are4  The  Inn  Album,' '  Red  Cotton  Night-Cap  Country,' 
'  Ivan  Ivknovitch,'  and  some  shorter  poems.  The  individual  living  to 
develop  the  mind  stuff  of  the  world  rather  than  the  individual  playing 
a  part  in  action,  attracted  Browning,  and  we  find  a  large  percentage 
of  his  subjects  —  between  twenty  and  thirty  poems  —  to  be  dramatic 
presentations  of  characters  not  distinguished  for  their  part  in  the  his- 
tory of  action,  but  who  have  played  a  part  more  or  less  prominent  in 
the  history  of  thought  or  art.  Such  are  '  Paracelsus,'  '  Saul,'  '  Abt 
Vogler,'  '  Fra  Lippo  Lippi.'  Sometimes  they  appear  in  the  disguise  of  a 
name  not  their  own,  as  in  '  Bishop  Blougram,'  for  whom  Cardinal  Wise- 
man sat,  '  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau '  —  Napoleon,  Mr.  Sludge  — 
Home,  the  <  Spiritualist.'  <  The  Pied  Piper,'  and '  The  Story  of  Pornic,' 
are  familiar  examples  of  legendary  subjects.  Greece  is  drawn  upon  in 
the  translation  from  the  Greek  of  '  Agamemnon,'  to  which  must  be 
added  '  Balaustion's  Adventure '  and  '  Aristophanes'  Apology,'  both 
of  which  contain  transcripts  from  Euripides  ;  also  '  Echetlos,'  '  Pheidip- 
pides,'  '  Artemis  Prologizes,1  and  '  Ixion.'  There  should  furthermore 
be  mentioned  a  few  poems  which  grew  out  of  suggestions  furnished  by 
poetry,  music,  and  art,  as  '  Cenciaja,'  *  A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's,'  '  The 
Guardian  Angel.'  And  last,  out  of  the  pure  stuff  of  imagination,  have 
been  fashioned  some  of  his  most  lifelike  characters.  Sometimes,  as 


xxviii  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

already  stated,  they  move  in  an  actual  historical  environment,  some- 
times merely  in  an  atmosphere  of  history,  and  sometimes,  detached 
from  time  and  place,  is  pictured  a  human  soul  struggling  with  a  passion 
universal  to  mankind. 

This  vast  range  of  material  is  not  by  any  means  chosen  at  random 
by  the  poet.  There  are  several  centres  of  human  thought,  around 
which  the  genius  of  Browning  plays  with  exceptional  power.  Such, 
for  example,  are  the  ideas  symbolized  in  human  love  and  service,  in 
art,  and  in  the  Incarnation. 

Clustering  about  the  instinct  of  human  love,  gathers  thickest  a  maze 
of  poems  bearing  witness  to  the  force,  sweetness,  and  versatility  of 
Browning's  treatment  of  the  purely  personal  emotions.  The  scope 
sweeps  from  primitive  to  consummate  types,  as  if  none  conceivable 
were  to  be  tabooed ;  and  if  not  all  are  represented,  the  intention 
towards  all  is  evidently  hospitable.  Yet  the  unifying  current  is  clear 
through  all  differentiations,  because  it  is  based  on  the  vital  fact  of  the 
psychical  origin  of  the  emotion  of  love  as  desire,  and  capable,  therefore, 
of  a  never-ending  tendency  to  impel  and  energize  the  powers  and  re- 
veal the  highest  potency  of  each  individual  soul.  The  conditions  under 
which  it  acts  may  be  favorable  or  not,  the  outgoing  love  may  be  satis- 
fled  or  not,  by  eliciting  and  enjoying  love  in  return ;  in  any  case,  the 
test  is  equally  good  to  make  a  soul  declare  itself — i;  to  wit,  by  its 
fruit,  the  thing  it  does,"  and  thus,  through  living  out  its  own  life,  to 
recruit  both  the  general  plan  of  the  race  and  its  own  individual  possi- 
bilities. 

This  psychical  value,  of  which  the  commonest  instinct  towards  love, 
in  any  and  every  human  creature,  is  capable,  relates  all  men  to  each 
other,  and,  pointing  out  the  implicit  use  of  each  to  each,  permits  none 
to  be  scorned  as  having  nc  part  in  the  scheme,  nor  any  to  be  denied 
the  vision  of  some  dim  descried  glory  "  ever  on  before."  It  consti- 
tutes a  revelation  to  every  man  of  the  Infinite,  incarnate  within  his 
own  grasp  and  proof,  —  a  miracle,  only  to  be  felt,  differing  in  this  from 
any  attempt  to  achieve  the  Absolute  through  act  or  deed  or  any  product 
of  effort  outside  oneself,  one  instant  of  human  consciousness  enabling 
the  laying  hold  on  eternity. 

In  these  Selections  are  poems  that  represent  the  instinct  of  love  astir 
in  modes  that  foster  the  transmutation  of  desire  into  force,  no  matter 
what  obstacles  beset  it :  or  that  chill  and  obstruct  its  saving  rule  although 
its  way  be  smooth.  The  merely  selfish  expression  of  the  common  in- 
stinct is  depicted  in  'The  Laboratory'  and  'My  Last  Duchess';  the 
unselfish,  in  'One  Way  of  Love.'  Its  seeing  faculty  appears  in  'Cris- 
tina,'  and  '  The  Last  Ride  Together ' ;  but  its  eyes  are  sealed  until  too 


CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

late  in  '  The  Confessional '  and  in  Constance  in  '  In  a  Balcony.'  It  finds 
itself  expressed  in  a  conventionalized  way  in  '  Numpholeptos ' ;  in  a 
realistic  way  in  '  Poetics.'  It  is  revealed  in  '  Count  Gismond '  as  rudi- 
mentary; as  ripe  in  'By  the  Fireside.'  It  is  stifled  in  'Bifurcation,' 
<  The  Statue  and  the  Bust,'  '  Youth  and  Art,'  '  Dis  Aliter  Visum ' ;  it  is 
self-baffled  in  '  A  Forgiveness,'  and  '  In  a  Balcony ' ;  but  has  sway  de- 
spite Death  in  'Prospice,'  and  'Never  the  Time  and  the  Place.'  All 
these  separate  ways  of  love  are  glimpses  at  parts  of  human  experience, 
which,  since  they  can  be  correlated,  illumine  the  course  of  growth  latent 
for  any  soul  in  a  crisis  of  emotion.  Other  poems  still,  exemplify  this 
by  correlating  various  stages  of  development  occurring  in  the  experience 
of  one  person,  the  original  manifestation  of  love  adding  to  itself  a  new 
psychical  value,  as  in  'James  Lee's  Wife.' 

Taken  as  a  whole,  Browning's  broad  and  vital  representations  of  love 
reveal  the  related  values  of  different  phases  of  personal  experience  and 
of  each  personal  experience  to  every  other;  and,  also,  the -bearing  of 
each  and  all  such  experiences  on  human  progress  and  on  an  ecstatic 
consciousness  of  the  Infinite. 

In  the  manifestations  of  human  energy  commonly  called  social,  cor- 
responding orbits  of  relative  values  are  brought  to  light  by  Browning 
through  his  reconstruction  from  life  itself  of  numerous  varying  types  of 
work  and  consequent  service  to  humanity  at  large.  The  range  exempli- 
fied includes  the  exercise  of  his  art  by  a  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  an  Abt  Vogler, 
or  a  Cleon,  the  devotion  to  his  study  of  a  Grammarian  or  the  public 
achievement  of  a  Pheidippides,  a  Herve  Kiel,  a  Pym,  a  Strafford,  or  a 
Luria.  Browning  shows  a  consciousness  of  the  special  influence  of 
certain  historic  periods  of  civic  enthusiasm  on  the  development  of  social 
ideals.  The  grim  righteousness  of  Pym's  London,  the  glories  of  Athens 
and  of  Florence,  are  fitly  celebrated.  And  in  the  whole  pioneer  period 
which  sowed  the  seed  and  set  the  shape  of  much  that  is  not  yet  ripe 
for  fulfilment  in  modern  civilization  —  in  the  period  of  the  Italian  Re- 
naissance, Browning's  imaginative  conception  found  frame  and  flesh. 
In  '  Sordello '  he  descried  the  incipient  democratic  tendencies  of  that 
period,  anticipating  the  conclusions  of  its  special  historians :  of  Burck- 
hardt,  who  characterized  it  as  "  the  awakening  of  the  individual  in  love 
with  his  own  possibilities  " ;  of  Vernon  Lee,  who  describes  it  as  "  the 
movement  for  mediaeval  democratic  progress  "  ;  of  Symonds,  who  speaks 
of  it  as  "  the  persistent  effort  after  liberty  of  the  unconquerable  soul  of 
man."  Browning  embodies  it,  in  the  period  that  prepared  the  way  for 
the  Renaissance,  in  the  consciousness  of  his  hero,  the  warrior-poet 
Sordello,  as  the  dawn  and  struggle  for  supremacy  of  the  democratic 
ideal. 


xxx  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

About  the  Renaissance  crystallized  an  important  group  of  Browning's 
art  poems,  nearly  all  of  which  appear  in  this  volume. 

'  Pictor  Ignotus '  shows  us  the  personality  of  the  typical,  often  unknown 
monastic  painter  of  the  Renaissance  period,  the  nature  of  his  beautiful 
but  cold  art,  and  the  conditions  of  servitude  to  ecclesiastical  beliefs  and 
ideals  which  shaped  both  personality  and  art.  Fra  Lippo  exhibits  the 
irresistible  tendency  of  the  art  impulse  to  expand  beyond  bounds  either 
of  the  church  or  of  set  laws  of  art  and  finding  beauty  wheresoever  in 
life  it  chooses  to  turn  the  light  of  its  gaze.  The  Bishop  who  ordered 
his  tomb  at  St.  Praxed's,  stands  for  somewhat  more  than  the  typical 
art-patronizing  priest,  whose  connoisseurship,  strong  in  death,  serves 
his  vanity,  worldiiness,  and  envy.  He  gathers  up  in  his  person  the 
pagan  survivals,  the  normal  grossness,  the  assumption  of  authority, 
which  were  the  ecclesiastical  and  aristocratic  clogs  that  dragged  back 
the  forward-tending  and  freedom-seeking  Renaissance  movement. 
'  Old  Pictures  in  Florence '  shows  more  explicitly  the  relation  to  historic 
periods  of  various  new  art  impulses  working  themselves  out  in  schools ; 
the  indebtedness  of  each  to  each ;  and  the  onflowing  movement  be- 
longing to  all  collectively.  At  the  same  time  is  emphasized  the  supreme 
importance  to  the  world  of  assimilating  the  work  of  the  pioneering 
artists,  from  whom  their  successors  derive  vitality.  There  is  also  no 
mistaking  the  expression  in  favor  of  free  democratic  conditions  which 
conduce  to  "art's  best  birth."  So,  throughout  these  poems,  manifesting 
Browning's  universal  enthusiasm  for  all  varieties  of  art,  the  relativity 
and  unity  of  all  art  expression  is  shown  to  be  perfectly  reconcilable  with 
the  independent  worth  of  the  special  exponent  of  the  art  of  his  time ; 
and  the  development  both  of  art  and  the  artist  is  shown  to  be  depend- 
ent on  the  free  play  and  unresting  aspiration  of  his  powers. 

Not  less  sympathetic  is  Browning's  understanding  of  art  as  wrought 
out  in  music,  though  in  his  musical  poems  the  historical  atmosphere 
is  not  so  prominent  as  it  is  in  the  art  poems.  They  dwell  upon  the 
different  attitudes  taken  toward  music  as  the  result  of  differences  in 
temperament,  rather  than  upon  any  distinct  phases  of  musical  growth. 
His  chief  musicians,  —  David,  Abt  Vogler,  Hugues,  and  the  organist 
who  performs  his  mountainous  fugues,  Galuppi  and  the  man  who  plays 
his  toccata,  the  husband  in  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  and  the  musical  critic 
of 'Charles  Avison,'  —  all  see  different  possibilities  in  music.  David  is 
more  the  poet  than  the  musician  since,  when  he  reaches  his  highest 
point  of  inspiration,  he  throws  his  harp  aside  and  depends  entirely 
upon  language  for  his  effect.  He  uses  music  primarily  as  an  awakener 
—  through  the  familiarity  of  the  tunes,  he  sings  to  Saul  —  of  long-for- 
gotten memories,  along  with  which  comes  the  renewal  of  early  emo- 


CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxxi 

tions,  —  an  effect  of  music  often  observed  and  used  to  good  purpose 
in  arousing  soldiers  to  patriotism,  through  melodies  that  awaken  mem- 
ories of  home  and  childhood.  David,  casting  aside  his  harp,  when 
filled  with  the  intense  desire  of  adequate  expression,  is  the  exact  an- 
tipode  of  the  husband  in  ;  Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  who  feels  that  the  most 
complete  expression  is  only  possible  by  means  of  music.  This  opin- 
ion, however,  is  somewhat  discounted  by  the  character  of  the  man, 
sophistical  as  he  often  is  in  his  arguments.  When  he  finds  himself 
pushed  for  logical  reasons  for  his  moral  conduct,  he  falls  back  upon 
music,  by  means  of  which  he  could  make  all  plain  to  his  wife  if  she 
only  understood  its  language.  His  dependence  upon  music  as  a  re- 
vealer  of  the  truth  is  based  on  the  ground  that  it  gives  form  to  feeling, 
and  is  equivalent  to  his  founding  his  arguments  on  feeling.  That  to 
reflect  moods  of  feeling  is  among  the  highest  offices  of  music  is  doubt- 
less true,  but  to  formulate  theories  of  moral  conduct  upon  this  fact  is 
sophistical  in  the  highest  degree,  for  the  all-sufficient  reason  that  music 
may  reflect  a  mood  the  opposite  of  aspiring.  The  critic  in  '  Charles 
Avison '  recognizes  to  the  full  the  limitations  of  music.  Though  it 
gives  form  to  feeling,  w;th  the  passage  of  time  the  form  becomes  ob- 
solete, and  the  feeling  once  expressed  is  no  longer  discernible  through 
it.  An  understanding  of  its  mood  can  then  be  gained  only  by  recourse 
to  the  historical  sense,  reconstructing  the  time  that  gave  it  birth,  and 
by  this  means  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  the  mood  that  inspired  it.  Thus, 
music  furnishes  to  Browning  another  illustration  of  the  relativity  of  art 
form,  of  its  failure  —  as  of  every  effort  of  man  —  to  touch  perfection, 
though,  none  the  less,  the  record  of  man's  effort  to  give  adequate  ex- 
pression to  his  aspirations. 

4  A  Toccata  of  Galuppi '  furnishes  a  fine  illustration  of  the  exercise 
of  the  historical  sense  on  the  part  of  the  person  who  plays  the  toccata 
in  conjuring  up  a  lifelike  picture  of  the  pleasure-loving  Venice,  whose 
heartlessness  re-lives  for  him  in  the  dreary  harmonies  of  Galuppi's 
music.  The  organist  in  '  Master  Hugues '  is  not  blessed  with  any  such 
historical  sense,  and  he  is  therefore  incapable  of  penetrating  within  the 
outer  crust  of  the  fugue.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fugue,  as  well  as  the 
toccata,  are  both  examples  of  music  which  is  less  the  outcome  of  aspira- 
tion than  an  intellectual  playing  with  forms  for  form's  sake,  and  as  such 
furnish  a  warrant  for  the  delicious  humor  which  Browning  expends  on 
them. 

In  'Abt  Vogler,'  Browning  has  represented  music  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  man  who  has,  so  to  speak,  fathomed  the  heart  of  the  mys- 
tery. He  has  none  of  the  misgivings  of  the  critic.  Like  the  man  in 
*  Fifine,'  he,  too,  regards  music  as  the  most  complete  means  of  expres- 


xxxii  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION: 

sion ;  but  it  is  more  to  him  than  the  mere  reflection  of  earthly  emo- 
tions, —  it  is  the  incarnation  of  the  wish  of  his  soul  to  be  in  touch  with 
the  Infinite.  His  purer  spirit  feels  the  revelation  in  the  inspired  effort 
to  image  in  entirely  beautiful  form  the  strivings  upward  of  the  soul, 
and  in  a  form,  moreover,  which  is  itself  evolved  out  of  the  souL 
Aspiration  becomes,  as  it  were,  flesh  and  blood ;  is  not  indirectly  ex- 
pressed by  means  of  symbols  as  in  the  arts  of  painting  and  poetry. 
So  much  is  the  form  identified  with  the  spirit  in  the  Abbe's  mind,  that 
he  thinks  of  his  music  winging  its  way  up  to  God,  an  eternal  good,  to 
take  its  place  in  the  completed  round  of  everlasting  beauty.  He,  in- 
deed, is  just  the  needed  supplement  to  the  critic,  in  '  Charles  Avison,' 
who  perhaps  is  not  sufficiently  alive  to  the  fact  that  a  new  beauty  does 
not  necessarily  exclude  the  old. 

Though  the  importance  of  these  poems  is  chiefly  due  to  their  bring- 
ing out  the  various  functions  which  music  may  perform  for  differ- 
ent individuals,  there  is  a  historical  element  of  considerable  interest. 
David's  use  of  music  is  quite  in  keeping  with  an  age  that  had  not  alto- 
gether learned  to  regard  music  other  than  as  a  handmaid  to  poetry. 
In  Hugues,  there  is  certainly  'pictured  the  revolt  against  the  over- 
learned  amplifications  indulged  in  by  the  old  contrapuntal  writers, 
which  was  triumphantly  led  by  Palestrina.  An  epoch  of  musical  decay 
breathes  through  the  '  Toccata,'  which  belongs  to  the  period  of  the  de- 
cline of  the  Italian  influence  in  music,  justly  following  upon  a  wornout 
inspiration,  to  give  place  to  the  glories  of  the  pre-eminent  German 
school ;  while  Abt  Vogler  is  fired  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  period  when 
music,  its  shackles  of  the  past  rent  asunder,  had  in  the  romantic  school 
entered  upon  a  long  triumphant  march  of  development. 

Browning's  portraits  of  poets  and  poems  illustrating  in  diverse  ways 
various  principles  of  poetic  art  naturally  ally  themselves  to  the  groups  of 
poems  on  the  fine  arts  just  considered.  His  early  devotion  to  Shelley, 
expressed  in  '  Pauline,'  was  succeeded  in  '  Paracelsus '  by  an  imaginary 
representation  of  a  poet,  Aprile,  who,  like  Shelley,  was  the  impersonatior 
of  spiritual  love  and  ardor.  In  '  Sordello'  this  fervent  poetic  type  again 
appears,  which  yearns  to  bury  itself  in  what  it  worships.  It  is  now  con- 
trasted with  a  new  self-centred  type  of  poet  which  holds  its  own  con- 
sciousness aloof  from  its  dreams,  yet  finds  no  dream  or  function  of  life 
without  as  good  a  counterpart  within  itself.  The  distinction  here  made 
between  what  is  called  the  subjective  poet,  such  a  one  as  Shelley,  and 
the  objective  or  dramatic  poet,  such  a  one  as  Shakespeare,  recurs  in 
his  prose  essay  on  Shelley,  and  some  variety  of  one  or  the  other  or  hoped- 
for  blending  of  both  types  animates  all  his  impersonations  of  poets. 
Eglamor  in  '  Sordello'  is  a  half- ripe  bardling  of  the  Shelley  order.  In 


CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxxiii 

*  The  Glove '  Ronsard  and  Marot  are  incidentally  characterized  and  con- 
trasted to  the  advantage  of  the  poet  more  deeply  versed  in  lore  and  life. 
Keats  appears  in  '  Popularity,1  as  a  poet  dowering  the  world  and  many 
imitators  with  a  beauty  never  seen  before.  Shelley  again  has  a  tribute 
of  personal  love  in  '  Memorabilia.'  Euripides  and  Aristophanes 
owe  to  Browning,  in  '  Balaustion's  Adventure '  and  (  Aristophanes'  Apol- 
ogy,' the  deepest  appreciation  and  soundest  criticism  they  have  ever  re- 
ceived at  any  one  man's  hands.  Shakespeare  is  directly  defended  in 
'  At  the  Mermaid '  from  charges  of  pessimism,  derision  of  women,  and 
imeasy  ambition  to  figure  in  court  life  —  charges  more  or  less  involved 
in  some  modern  conceptions  of  him  based  on  an  autobiographical  read- 
ing of  the  Sonnets  and  Plays.  The  sonnet  theory  is  again  directly  com- 
bated in  i  House  ; '  and  '  Shop '  may  perhaps  be  taken  as  falling  in  with 
these  two.  Both  'At  the  Mermaid'  and  '  House'  rest  on  a  conception 
of  Shakespeare  as  belonging  altogether  to  the  objective  type  of  poet.  And 
the  Shakespeare  Sonnet,  '  The  Names,'  is  in  accord  with  a  view  which 
accepts  him  as  supreme  dramatic  creator. 

In  the  verses  beginning  'Touch  him  ne'er  so  Jigh^y,'  Browning  sings 
the  way  of  pain  and  obstacle  through  which  pass  the  master  poets  who 
sum  up  great  epochs  of  national  life  —  such  a  poet  as  Dante  —  and  who 
transmute  the  bitterness  of  sorrow  into  the  splendor  of  song. 

In  '  Transcendentalism '  and  '  How  it  Strikes  a  Contemporary'  are 
celebrated  the  vitality  of  the  poet's  gift,  the  keenness  of  the  poet's  sight, 
the  warmth  and  humanity  of  his  heart  and  office. 

Expressions  concerning  the  philosophy  of  the  poet's  art  and  self- 
development  are  to  be  found  in  '  Sordello,'  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book ' 
and  other  of  his  most  profound  works.  The  simple  poems  on  poetic 
art  given  in  this  volume,  are  like  the  whole  range  of  his  work  on  this 
subject,  in  placing  the  poet  somewhat  less  within  the  influence  of  the 
historic  times  to  which  he  is  related,  than  the  artist  or  even  the  musi- 
cian. The  poet's  fortune  is  read  aright  in  his  intimate  and  loving  kin- 
ships with  humanity,  his  clear  outsight  and  deep  insight  upon  the 
springs  of  life  and  progress,  in  the  dependency  of  his  artistic  power  on 
his  truth  to  his  own  highest  energies  and  aspiration. 

The  most  exalted  ideal  towards  which  the  human  soul  aspires  is  that 
of  divine  love,  and  this,  as  symbolized  in  the  idea  of  the  Incarnation, 
Browning  has  presented  from  every  side.  Even  in  so  humble  a  thinker 
as  Caliban,  the  germ  of  religious  aspiration  is  discernible  in  his  concep- 
tion of  a  God  above  Setebos  who,  if  not  very  positive  in  his  possession 
of  good  qualities,  is  at  least  negative  so  far  as  bad  ones  are  concerned. 

This  volume  is  rich  in  poems  which  revolve  about  this  central  idea. 
In  David,  the  intensity  of  hi",  hnmin  love  exr-Us  his  conception  cf  God 


xxxiv  CRITICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

from  that  of  power  into  that  of  love,  and  with  prophetic  vision  he  sees 
the  future  attainment  of  a  religious  ideal  in  which  love  like  unto  human 
love  shall  have  a  place.  What  a  powerful  force  this  longing  is  in  the 
human  mind  is  again  illustrated  in  Cleon,  the  cultured  Greek  who,  de- 
spite his  broad  sympathies  and  deep  appreciation  of  all  forms  of  beauty, 
feels  that  life  is  not  capable  of  affording  a  realization  of  joy  such  as  the 
soul  sees.  Like  Saul,  an  immortality  of  deed  has  no  attractions  for  him ; 
it  is  the  assurance  of  a  continuing  personality  that  he  wants.  Karshish, 
the  Arab,  too,  is  haunted  by  the  idea  of  a  God  who  is  love ;  but  neither 
in  him  nor  in  Cleon  has  the  aspiration  reached  such  a  point  that  they 
are  enabled  to  conceive  of  the  ideal  as  actual,  though  living  at  the  time 
of  Christ.  In  '  The  Death  in  the  Desert,1  is  presented  the  portrait  of 
one  who  has  seen  the  ideal  incarnate. 

Other  phases  of  doubt  and  faith  are  pictured  as  affected  by  more 
sophisticated  stages  of  culture.  While  Cleon  and  Karshish  belong  to 
a  phase  of  development  wherein  the  mind  has  not  fully  grasped  the 
possibilities  of  such  a  conception,  a  Bishop  Blougram's  doubts  grow 
out  of  the  uncertainties  of  the  nature  of  proof.  Far  from  being  sure, 
like  David,  that  the  incarnation  will  become  a  veritable  truth,  he  can 
only  hope  that  it  may  have  been  true,  and  resolve  to  act  as  if  he  be- 
lieved it  were.  Still  another  phase  of  doubt  is  shown  in  '  Ferishtah's 
Fancies,1  where  the  belief  in  an  actual  incarnation  is  scouted  by  an 
Oriental  as  preposterous. 

The  assurance  of  divine  love  does  not  come  to  all  of  Browning's 
characters  through  a  belief  in  external  revelation.  For  instance,  in 
the  Epilogue  to  the  first  series  of  Selections,  in  the  present  volume, 
and  in  '  Fears  and  Scruples,1  it  is  through  the  experiencing  of  human 
love  alone,  reaching  out  toward  God,  which  carries  the  conviction  that 
there  must  be  a  God  of  love  to  receive  it,  though  he  may  never  have 
manifested  himself  in  the  flesh.  In  'Ferishtah's  Fancies,1  again,  Fer- 
ishtah,  who  sternly  reprimands  the  unbeliever  already  mentioned,  seems 
to  regard  the  ideal  of  an  actual  incarnation  as  a  human  conception, 
but,  nevertheless,  doing  duty  as  a  symbol  of  the  Divine,  and  thus  help- 
ing men  to  approach  the  Infinite. 

In  giving  a  sketch  of  the  general  motive  and  content  of  Browning's 
work,  we  have  treated  it  as  essentially  dramatic.  It  is  to  be  noted, 
however,  that  he  has  carried  his  observations  of  the  realities  of  life  into 
regions  never  approached  by  any  other  poet,  —  that  is,  into  the  thoughts 
and  motives  of  humanity,  the  very  sources  of  world  movements,  —  with 
the  result  that  we  do  not  see  his  characters  in  action  so  much  as  in  the 
intellectual  fermentation,  which  is  the  concomitant  of  action.  This  fact, 
namely,  that  his  imagination  invests  the  subjective  side  of  man's  life 


CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xxxv 

with  vitality,  sets  up  a  certain  spiritual  kinship  between  the  poet  and 
his  characters,  and  justifies  the  search  for  a  philosophy  which  may  be 
styled  Browning's  own ;  yet,  that  any  such  search  must  be  conducted 
with  the  utmost  discretion  is  evidenced  by  the  existence  of  many  diver- 
sities in  opinion  upon  this  subject.  It  is  dangerous  to  regard  each  poem 
as  a  mask  from  behind  which  Browning  in  his  own  person  peeps  forth  ; 
for  the  more  one  studies  his  creations,  the  more  the  peculiar  individu- 
alisms  of  their  natures  assert  themselves,  and  the  more  the  poet  retires 
into  the  background.  Even  admitting  that  there  are  certain  religious 
and  philosophical  ideas  upon  which  many  of  his  dramatis  persona 
dwell,  each  one  presents  them  from  his  own  point  of  view,  and  in  a 
form  of  expression  suited  to  the  particular  character  and  circumstance. 
Moreover,  the  ever-recurring  idea  in  new.modes  of  expression  is  abso- 
lutely t_"ue  to  the  life  of  thought  in  the  world.  It  is  no  more  surprising 
that  David,  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  husband  in  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  and 
Paracelsus  should  have  some  points  of  philosophy  in  common,  than  that 
the  wits  of  Plato,  Buddha,  Herbert  Spencer,  and  the  North  American 
Indians  should  occasionally  jump  together.  We  have  seen  how  he  dis- 
criminates against  no  form  of  doubt  or  faith  by  allowing  every  shade 
of  opinion  to  be  presented  from  the  standpoint  of  one  who  holds  it. 
This  is  external  evidence  of  his  friendliness  toward  all  forms  of  effort 
that  indicate  a  search  for  the  truth.  With  which  particular  phase  of 
truth  the  poet,  himself,  is  to  be  identified,  it  would  be  difficult  to  dis- 
cover, but  it  is  not  so  impossible  to  deduce  general  principles ;  not 
only  from  the  fact  that  aspiration  is  plainly  the  informing  spirit  of  his 
work,  but  because  from  time  to  time  this  informing  spirit  forces  itself 
to  the  surface  in  an  expression  avowedly  the  poet's  own.  From  such 
expressions,  of  which  the  third  division  of  the  '  Epilogue '  in  the  pres- 
ent volume,  '  Reverie '  in  '  Asolando,'  passages  in  '  Paracelsus,'  '  Sor- 
dello,'  and  '  Ferishtah's  Fancies,'  are  examples,  together  with  the  whole 
trend  of  his  work,  his  philosophy,  broadly  speaking,  may  be  described 
as  based  upon  the  revelation  of  divine  love  in  every  human  being, 
through  experience  of  love  reaching  out  toward  an  object  which  shall 
completely  satisfy  aspiration.  The  partial  manifestations  of  love  include 
the  feeling  of  gratitude  awakened  through  the  enjoyment  of  benefits 
received,  like  that  felt  by  Ferishtah  when  he  eats  a  cherry  for  break- 
fast; the  creative  impulse,  yearning  to  all-express  itself  in  art;  love  seek- 
ing its  human  complement ;  and  love  seeking  expression  in  service  to 
humanity.  Moral  failure,  resulting  in  evil ;  intellectual  failure,  resulting 
m  ignorance,  are  simply  the  necessary  means  for  the  further  develop- 
ment of  the  soul,  and  the  continuance  of  the  law  of  progress.  While 
the  revelation  of  God  is  thus  entirely  subjective,  his  conception  of  God 


xxxvi  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

is  both  subjective  and  objective.  Looking  forth  upon  the  world,  he  sees 
Power  and  Law  exemplified  ;  looking  within  himself,  he  sees  Power  and 
Law  manifested  as  Love.  God,  then,  must  be  both  Power  and  Love,  as 
Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  discovered,  and  with  this  dramatic  expression  may  be 
paralleled  the  subjective  expression  of  the  same  conclusion  in  '  Reverie,' 

—  the  poet's  last  piece  of  profound  philosophizing. 

The  faculty  for  twofold  gaze  within  and  without,  on  which  Brown- 
ing's reconciliation  of  Power  and  Love  is  built,  has  enabled  him  to 
effect  a  like  reconciliation  between  Power  in  Art  —  the  ability  to  appro- 
priate and  project  into  form  large  swaths  of  fresh  and  living  material 

—  and  Love  in  Art  —  the  ardor  to  charge  and  energize  the  whole  with 
spiritual  attractiveness  and  meaning. 

The  analytic  tendency,  for  which  he  is  often  censured,  does  not  con- 
trol, it  subserves  a  much  more  noticeable  faculty  for  synthesis  —  for 
seeing  and  reproducing  wholes. 

Another  unusually  happy  balance  of  capabilities  distinguishes  Brown- 
ing. The  moral  interests  which  weight  his  work  with  significance  are 
lightened  with  an  over-play  of  humor  —  a  product  of  his  double  vision. 
With  what  genial  facility  he  enters,  for  example,  into  Baldinucci's  sim- 
ple old  man's  nature,  and  lends  the  poet-wit  to  the  exquisite  clumsiness 
of  his  joke  against  the  Jews ;  and  then  again,  with  what  easy-going, 
wide-sweeping  sympathy  he  enters  into  the  complex  course  of  law  and 
custom  which  turns  the  laugh  on  Baldinucci,  after  all.  So,  in  this,  as 
in  many  another  such  dramatic  picture  of  poor  old  human  nature,  the 
moral  lesson  is  itself  made  dramatic. 

Lend  Browning  but  a  little  consideration,  and  the  opulence  of  his 
effects  will  convince  you  that  these  twofold  counter-poised  faculties 
have  found  way  in  the  sort  of  art  which  embodies  them,  because  that 
alone  was  large  enough  to  befit  them.  Lyric,  idyl,  tale,  fantasy,  or  philo- 
sophic imagining,  are  enclosed  in  the  all-embracing  dramatic  frame. 

His  artistic  invention,  moreover,  working  within  the  dramatic  sphere, 
expended  itself  in  perfecting  a  poetical  form  peculiarly  his  own,  —  the 
monologue. 

His  monologues  range  from  expressions  of  mood  as  simple  as  in  the 
song,  '  Nay,  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her,'  to  those  in  which  not  only  the 
complex  feelings  of  the  speaker  are  expressed,  but  complete  pictures  of 
a  second  and  sometimes  a  third  character  are  given ;  or  even  groups  of 
characters  as  in  '  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,'  where  the  curious,  alert,  Florentine 
guards  are  not  all  portrayed  with  equal  clearness,  but  are  all  made  to 
emerge  effectively  in  a  picturesque  knot,  showing  here  a  hang-dog  face, 
and  there  a  twinkling  eye,  or  a  brawny  arm  elbowing  a  neighbor.  By 
dexterous  weaving  in  of  allusions,  flashes  of  light  are  turned  upon  events 


CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION'.  xxxvii 

and  feelings  of  the  past,  so  adding  harmonious  depths  to  the  general 
effect. 

His  diction  is  noticeable  in  that  he  uses  a  large  proportion  of  Saxon 
words,  and,  by  so  doing,  gives  a  lifelike  naturalness  to  his  speech, 
especially  in  his  shorter  poems,  in  which  his  characters  do  not  talk  as  if 
they  were  confined  within  metrical  limits,  but  seemingly  as  if  the  un- 
stilted  ways  of  daily  life  were  open  to  them.  Yet  in  all  this  apparently 
natural  flow  of  words,  there  is  a  harmony  of  rhythm,  a  recurring  stress  of 
rhyme,  and  a  condensation  of  thought  that  produces  an  effect  of  con- 
summate art,  frequently  enhanced  by  a  subtile  symbolism  underlying  the 
words.  How  simple  in  its  mere  external  form  is  the  little  poem,  'Ap- 
pearances.' Two  momentary  scenes,  a  few  words  to  each,  yet  there 
have  been  laid  bare  the  worldly,  ambitious  heart  of  one  person  and  the 
true  heart  of  another,  disappointed  by  the  shattering  of  his  idol ;  and 
under  all,  symbolically,  a  universal  truth. 

The  obscurity  with  which  Browning  has  been  taxed  so  often  is  largely 
due  to  this  monologue  form.  It  is  apt  to  be  confusing  at  first,  mainly 
because  nothing  like  it  has  been  met  with  before.  The  mind  must  be 
on  the  alert  to  catch  the  power  of  every  word,  to  see  its  individual  force 
and  its  relational  force.  Nothing,  neither  a  scene  nor  an  event,  is  de- 
scribed outright.  Only  in  the  course  of  the  talk,  references  to  events 
and  scenes  are  made  a  part  of  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the  poem,  and 
woven  in  with  such  skilfulness  by  the  poet  that  the  entire  scene  or  event 
may  be  reconstructed  by  those  who  have  eyes  to  see. 

A  harmonizing  of  imagery  and  of  rhythm  and  even  rhyme  with  the 
subject  in  hand  is  a  marked  characteristic  of  Browning's  verse. 

In  the  poems  '  Meeting  at  Night '  and  '  Parting  at  Morning,'  the  wave 
motion  of  the  sea  is  indicated  in  the  form,  not  only  by  the  arrangement 
of  the  rhymes  to  form  a  climax  by  bringing  a  couplet  in  the  middle  of 
the  stanza  like  the  crest  of  the  wave,  but  the  thought,  also,  gathers  to  a 
climax  midway  in  the  stanzas,  and  subsides  toward  their  close. 

In  'Pheidippides'  the  measure  is  a  mixture  of  dactyls  and  spondees, 
original  with  the  poet,  with  a  pause  at  the  end  of  each  line,  which  re- 
flects the  firm-set  eager  purpose  of  the  patriotic  Greek  runner  and  the 
breath-obstructed  rhythm  of  his  bounding  flight. 

In  'James  Lee's  Wife,'  the  metre  is  changed  in  each  lyric  to  chime 
in  with  the  changing  mood  dictating  each  one ;  and  the  imagery  is 
in  general  chosen  to  mate  every  aspect  of  the  thought  dominating 
each  mood.  For  example,  in  the  second  section,  called  '  By  the  Fire- 
side,' the  fire  of  shipwreck  wood  is  the  metaphor  made  to  yield  the 
mood  of  the  brooding  wife  a  mould  which  takes  the  cast  of  every  sud- 
den turn  and  cranny  of  her  ill-foreboding  reverie. 


xxxviii  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

In  the  grotesque,  frequently  double  rhymes,  and  the  rough  rhythm  ot 
'  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess,'  the  bluff,  blunt  manner  of  the  huntsman 
who  tells  the  story  is  conveyed.  The  subtle  change  that  passes  over 
the  spirit  of  the  tale  as  the  rhythm  falls  tranquilly,  with  pure  rhymes, 
no\v,  into  the  dreamy  chant  of  the  gypsy,  is  the  more  effective  for  the 
colloquial  swing,  stop,  and  start  of  the  forester's  gruff-voiced  diction. 

As  in  his  choice  of  poems  for  this  volume  Browning  says  he  had  an 
imaginary  personality  in  mind  to  guide  him,  so  it  may  be  said  that  he 
has  had  always  in  mind  imaginary  personalities,  in  various  guises  and 
manifold  circumstances,  to  guide  him  in  fashioning  his  style.  The 
marked  traits  of  his  art  are  keyed  to  attune  with  the  theme  and  motive 
they  interpret. 

As  an  artist  Browning  disclaimed  the  nice  selection  and  employment 
of  a  style  in  itself  beautiful.  As  an  artist,  none  the  less,  he  chose  to 
create  in  every  given  case  a  style  fitly  proportioned  to  the  design,  find- 
ing in  that  dramatic  relating  of  style  ?nd  motive  a  more  vital  beauty. 

CHARLOTTE  PORTER. 
HELEN  A.  CLARKE. 

MAY  25, 1896. 


ROBERT   BROWNING'S    POEMS. 


MY    STAR. 

ALL  that  I  know 
Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled  :  ic 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it. 


A    FACE. 

IF  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile ;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all :  but  rather  as  if  aloft 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so.  leaned  its  staff's 
Burthen  of  honey-coloured  buds,  to  kiss 

And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this.  IO 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround. 
How  it  should  waver,  on  the  pale  gold  ground, 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts! 
I  know,  Correggio  ioves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb : 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS. 

But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should  think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  faae  slow  against  the  sky, 
(That 's  the  pale  ground  you  'd  see  this  sweet  face  by) 
All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one  eye 
Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 


MY   LAST   DUCHESS. 

^£<^i. 

FERRARA. 

'S  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
J.     Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf  s  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will 't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design :  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  10 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess1  cheek  :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :  "  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart  —  how  shall  1  say  ?  —  too  soon  made  glad, 
Too  easily  impressed  ;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,  't  was  all  one!     My  favour  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men,  —  good!  but  thanked 
Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who  'd  stoop  to  blame 


SONG  FROM  "PIPPA   PASSES:"1  3 

This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech —  (which  I  have  not)  — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark"  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;  I  gave  commands; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will 't  please  you  rise?    «We  '11  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence  50 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we  '11  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me! 


SONG  FROM   "PIPPA   PASSES." 
I. 

GIVE  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me  ! 
When  —  where  — 
How  —  can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me 

If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there, 
There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me  ? 

("  Hist  ! "  —  said  Kate  the  queen  ; 
But  "  Oh,"  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"  'T  is  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes!  ") 

n. 

Is  she  wronged?  —  To  the  rescue  of  her  honour,  10 

My  heart ! 
Is  she  poor?  — What  costs  it  to  be  styled  a  donor? 

Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 
But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon  her! 

("  Nay,  list ! "  —  bade  Kate  the  queen ; 
And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"  'T  is  onlv  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses!  ") 


4 


CRISTINA. 


S 


"e^.U   ^  ^L.  G..  £W/-/,,>. 

CRISTINA.    ^ 
j 

HE  should  never  have  looked  at  me  if  she  meant  I  should  not  love 

her! 

There  are  plenty  .  .  .  men,  you  call  such,  I  suppose  .  .  .  she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases,  and  yet  leave  much  as  she  found  them  : 
But  I  'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it  when  she  fixed  me,  glancing  round 

them. 

II. 

What  ?     To  fix  me  thus  meant  nothing?     But  I  can't  tell  (there  's  my 

weakness) 
What  her  look  said  !  —  no  vile  cant,  sure,  about  "  need  to  strew  the 

bleakness 
Of   some  lone   shore    with  its  pearl-seed,  that    the  sea  feels  "  —  no 

"  strange  yearning 
That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish  where  there  's  chance  of  least 

returning." 

in. 

Oh,  we  're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows  !  but  not  quite  so  sunk  that 

moments, 

Sure  tho'  seldom,  are  denied  us,  when  the  spirit's  true  endowments     10 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones,  and  apprise  it  if  pursuing 
Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way,  to  its  triumph  or  undoing. 


There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights,  there  are  fire-flames  noondays 

kindle, 

Whereby  piled-up  honours  perish,  whereby  swollen  ambitions  dwindle, 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse,  which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  life-time  that  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 

v. 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment,  as  she  fixed  me,  she  felt  clearly,  ') . 
Ages  past  the  soul  existed,  here  an  age  't  is  resting  merely, 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages,  while  the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  heie  for  is,  this  love-way,  with  some  other  soul  to  mingle?     20 

VI. 

Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for,  and  eternally  must  lose  it ; 

Better  ends  may  be  in  prospect,  deeper  blisses  (if  you  choose  it), 

But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss  have  been  lost  here.     Doubt  you 

whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me,  mine  and  her  souls  rushed  together? 


COUNT  GISMOND.  5 

vn. 

Oh,  observe  !     Of  course,  next  moment,  the  world's  honours,  in  derision, 
Trampled  out  the  light  for  ever.     Never  fear  but  there's  provision 
Of  the  devil's  to  quench  knowledge,  lest  we  walk  the  earth  in  rapture  ! 
—  Making  those  who  catch  God's  secret,  just  so  much  more  prize  their 
capture  ! 

VIII. 

Such  am  I :  the  secret 's  mine  now  !  She  has  lost  me,  I  have  gained 
her; 

Her  soul  1s  mine :  and  thus,  grown  perfect,  I  shall  pass  my  life's  re- 
mainder. 30 

Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving  both  our  powers,  alone  and  blended  : 

And  then,  come  next  life  quickly !  This  world's  use  will  have  been 
ended. 


COUNT  GISMOND. 

AIX  IN  PROVENCE. 
I. 


God  who  savest  man,  save  most 
V  __     Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me  ! 
Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post, 

Chose  time  and  place  and  company 
To  suit  it  ;  when  he  struck  at  length 
My  honour,  't  was  with  all  his  strength. 

n. 

And  doubtlessly,  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 

Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed,  10 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 

III. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 
To  please  themselves  ;  't  was  all  their  deed  ; 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face  ; 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 


COUNT  GISMOND. 

rv. 

They,  too,  so  beauteous !     Each  a  queen 

By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast ;  20 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 

As  I  do.     E'en  when  I  was  dressed, 
Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 
Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head! 


But  no :  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 

My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 
The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 

A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 
My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 
And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs  —  30 

VI. 

And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 

Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 
And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 

Under  the  canopy  —  (a  streak 
That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun, 
Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun)  — 

VII. 

And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 

And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 
Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 

My  queen's-day  —  Oh  I  think  the  cause  40 

Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 
Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud! 

VIII. 

However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down ;  't  was  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but  .  .  .  there,  't  will  last 
No  long  time  .   .  .  the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain! 


See!  Gismond  's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys  :  I  can  proceed.  50 


COUNT  GISMOND.  7 

Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 
Forth  boldly  —  to  my  face,  indeed  — 
But  Gauthier  ?  and  he  thundered  "  Stay  !  " 
And  all  stayed.     "  Bring  no  crowns,  I  say  ! 

x. 

"  Bring  torches  !     Wind  the  penance-sheet 

About  her  !     Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 
Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet  ! 

Shall  she,  whose  body  I  embraced 
A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day  ? 
For  honours  sake  no  crowns,  I  say  ! "  60 

XI. 

I  ?     What  I  answered  ?     As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it  ?     No  more  says  the  soul. 

XII. 

Till  out  strode  Gismond ;  then  I  knew 

That  1  was  saved.     I  never  met 
His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set  70 

Himself  to  Satan  :  who  would  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end  ? 

XIII. 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  mouth 
With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 

In  blood  men's  verdict  there.     North,  Souta, 
East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead, 
And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

XIV. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 

The  heart  of  the  joy,  with  my  content  8a 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 

By  any  doubt  of  the  event : 
God  took  that  on  him  —  I  was  bid 
Watch  Gismond  for  my  part :  I  did. 


COUNT  GISMOND. 

xv. 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 

His  armourer  just  brace  his  greaves, 
Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 

The  while  !     His  foot  .  .  .  my  memory  leaves 
No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 
He  pulled  his  ringing  gaontlets  on.  90 

XVI. 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 

Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 
Prone  as  his  lie.  upon  the  ground : 

Gismond  flew  at  him.  used  no  sleight 
O'  the  sword,  but  open-breasted  drove, 
Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 

XVII. 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet 
And  said,  "  Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 

From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death  !  loo 

Say,  hast  thou  lied  ? :'    And,  "  I  have  lied 

To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 

XVIII. 

Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 

— What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  for  ever,  to  a  third 

Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

XIX. 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world ;  and  scarce  I  felt  1 10 

His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 

A  little  shifted  in  its  belt : 
For  he  began  to  say  the  while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 


So,  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 
We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 


EURYDICE  TO  ORPHEUS.  9 

Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 

Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 
I  vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 
God  lighten  !     May  his  soul  find  grace  !  120 

XXI. 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great  brow ;  tho'  when  his  brother's  black 

Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it  ...  Gismond  here  ? 
And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back  ? 

I  was  just  telling  Adela 

How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 


EURYDICE   TO   ORPHEUS. 

A  PICTURE   BY   FREDERICK   LEIGHTON,  R.A. 

BUT  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the  brow  ! 
Let  them  once  more  absorb  me  !     One  look  now 
Will  lap  me  round  for  ever,  not  to  pass 
Out  of  its  light,  though  darkness  lie  beyond : 
Hold  me  but  safe  again  within  the  bond 

Of  one  immortal  look  !     All  woe  that  was, 
Forgotten,  and  all  terror  that  may  be, 
Defied,  —  no  past  is  mine,  no  future :  look  at  me  ! 


THE   GLOVE. 
(PETER  RONSARD  loquitur?) 

".  TTEIGHO!  "yawned  one  day  King  Francis, 

L±   "  Distance  all  value  enhances  ! 
When  a  man  's  busy,  why,  leisure 
Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure : 
'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he? 
Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 
Here  we  Ve  got  peace  ;  and  aghast  I  'm 
Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pastime. 
Is  there  a  reason  in  metre? 

Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter  !  "  IO 

I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so, 


f0  THE  GLOVE. 

Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso, 

"Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloudlets  : 

Men  are  the  merest  Ixions  "  — 

Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  "  Let 's 

.  .  .  Heigho  ...  go  look  at  our  lions  !  " 

Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 

If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 

And  so,  to  the  courtyard  proceeding, 

Our  company,  Francis  was  leading,  20 

Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  penfold ; 

Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  bedizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 

And  SirDe  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the  foremost 

With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore  most. 

Oh,  \vhat  a  face  !     One  by  fits  eyed 

Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside  ; 

For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared  follow,  30 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion,  brooded. 

The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 

And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire-work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  firework, 

And  fled  :  one's  heart's  beating  redoubled  ; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was  troubled,  43 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter, 

By  the  firework's  slow  sparkling  and  sputter; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion. 

Such  a  brute  !     Were  I  friend  Clement  Marot 

(Whose  experience  of  nature's  but  narrow, 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small  mist 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalmist) 

I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe  you 

Ilium  Juda  Leonem  de  Tribu.  50 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy, 

The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  the}'  reached  and  they  rested 

On  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best  stead : 


THE    GLOVE.  H 

For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the  amazement, 

The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaze  meant,  60 

And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder. 

No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thunder, 

Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shivered, 

The  lion  at  last  was  delivered  ? 

Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead! 

And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  forehead, 

By  the  hope  in  those  eyes  wide  and  steady, 

He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 

Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain, 

Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  fountain  70 

To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress  : 

So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 

"  How  he  stands  !  "  quoth  the  King :  "  we  may  well  swear, 

(No  novice,  we  've  won  our  spurs  elsewhere 

And  so  can  afford  the  confession,) 

We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 

In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold ; 

Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no  fresh  hold, 

Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  purloin 

The  visitor's  brisket  or  sirloin  :  80 

But  who  's  he  would  prove  so  fool-hardy  ? 

Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  pardie  !  " 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 

Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 

Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested : 

The  dame  't  was,  who  flung  it  and  jested 

With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 

For  months  past ;  he  sat  there  pursuing 

His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 

Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance.  90 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight 's  a  tarrier  ! 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove,  —  while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 
The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir,  — 
Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated, 
Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was  seated 
And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 
Flung  the  glove. 

"Your  heart's  queen,  you  dethrone  her  ?    100 
So  should  I  ! "  —  cried  the  King  —  "  't  was  mere  vanity, 
Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity!  " 


12  THE    GLOVE. 

Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with  loathing 
From  such  a  proved  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Not  so,  I ;  for  I  caught  an  expression 

In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-possession 

Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merriment, — 

As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 

She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heedful 

So  long  as  the  process  was  needful,  —  IIQ 

As  if  she  had  tried,  in  a  crucible. 

To  what  ''speeches  like  gold"  were  reducible, 

And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper, 

Felt  the  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper ; 

To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust  to, 

Was  worth  all  the  ashes  and  dust  too. 

She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter ; 

Clement  Marot  stayed ;  I  followed  after, 

And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant  ? 

If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recalment?  120 

"  For  I  "  —  so  I  spoke  —  "  am  a  poet : 

Human  nature —  behoves  that  I  know  it  !  " 

She  told  me,  "  Too  long  had  I  heard 

Of  the  deed  proved  alone  by  the  word : 

For  my  love  —  what  De  Lorge  would  not  dare  ! 

With  my  scorn  —  what  De  Lorge  could  compare  ! 

And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 

He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed  a  breath, 

I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course, 

Doubt  his  word  —  and  moreover,  perforce,  130 

For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 

Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 

When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  brought 

All  the  dangers  at  once  to  my  thought, 

Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 

Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den,  — 

From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or  bare  hands 

Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the  sands, 

With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  applaud, 

By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  overawed,  140 

Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made  shift, 

That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at  the  gift, 

—  To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er  the  fence 

Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 

Than  to  get  back  the  bonnet  he  dropped, 

Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be  stopped. 

So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 

One  trial  what  '  death  for  my  sake ' 


THE    GLOVE.  !^ 

Really  meant,  while  the  power  was  yet  mine, 

Than  to  wait  until  time  should  define  150 

Such  a  phrase  not  so  simply  as  I, 

Who  took  it  to  mean  just  '  to  die.' 

The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak : 

Does  the  mark  yet  discolour  my  cheek? 

But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 

Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know?" 

I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping, 

And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 

As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway. 

No  doubt  that  a  noble  should  more  weigh  1 60 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian ; 

And  yet,  had  our  brute  been  Nemean  — 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervour 

The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to  serve  her) 

—  He  'd  have  scarce  thought  you  did  him  the  worst  turn 

If  you  whispered,  "  Friend,  what  you  'd  get,  first  earn  ! " 

And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 

Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they  married, 

To  that  marriage  some  happiness,  maugre 

The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 

For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with  men  vie, 

Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in  envy ; 

And,  in  short,  stood  so  plain  a  head  taller 

That  he  wooed  and  won  .  .  .  how  do  you  call  her? 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 

To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a  week  well. 

And  1t  was  noticed  he  never  would  honour 

De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon  her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretching 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching  180 

His  wife,  from  her  chamber,  those  straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 

While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat  in,  — 

But  of  course  this  adventure  came  pat  in. 

And  never  the  King  told  the  story, 

How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such  glory, 

But  the  wife  smiled  —  "  His  nerves  are  grown  firmer : 

Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no  murmur." 

Venienti  occur  rite  morbo  ! 

With  which  moral  I  drop  my  theorbo.  190 


SONG. 


SONG. 

I. 

N'AY  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 
Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress? 
Holds  earth  aught  —  speak  truth  —  above  her? 

Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress, 
And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 
So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall? 


n. 

Because,  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising; 

To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over : 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught  —  speak  truth  —  above  her?  10 

Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much! 


A   SERENADE   AT   THE  VILLA, 
i. 

r  I  "HAT  was  I,  you  heard  last  night, 

_L      When  there  rose  no  moon  at  all, 
Nor,  to  pierce  the  strained  and  tight 

Tent  of  heaven,  a  planet  small : 
Life  was  dead,  and  so  was  light. 

n. 

Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly, 

Not  a  glimmer  from  the  worm ; 
When  the  crickets  stopped  their  cry, 

When  the  owls  forbore  a  term, 
You  heard  music;  that  was  I.  IO 


Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain, 

Sultrily  suspired  for  proof: 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again, 

Lightning!  —  where  it  broke  the  roof, 
Bloodlike,  some  few  drops  of  rain. 


A  SERENADE  AT  THE   VILLA.  ^ 

IV. 

What  they  could  my  words  expressed, 

O  my  love,  my  all,  my  one! 
Sjnging  helped  the  verses  best, 

And  when  singing's  best  was  done, 
To  my  lute  I  left  the  rest.  20 


v. 

So  wore  night ;  the  East  was  gray, 

White  the  broad-faced  hemlock  flowers : 

There  would  be  another  day ; 
Ere  its  first  of  heavy  hours 

Found  me,  I  had  passed  away. 


VI. 

What  became  of  all  the  hopes, 

Words  and  song  and  lute  as  well? 
Say,  this  struck  you  :  "  When  life  gropes 

Feebly  for  the  path  where  fell 
Light  last  on  the  evening  slopes,  —  30 


VII. 

"  One  friend  in  that  path  shall  be, 

To  secure  my  step  from  wrong ; 
One  to  count  night  day  for  me, 

Patient  through  the  watches  long, 
Serving  most  with  none  to  see." 

VIII. 

Never  say  —  as  something  bodes  — 

"  So,  the  worst  has  yet  a  worse! 
When  life  halts  'neath  double  loads, 

Better  the  task-master's  curse 
Than  such  music  on  the  roads!  40 


"  When  no  moon  succeeds  the  sun, 
Nor  can  pierce  the  midnight's  tent 

Any  star,  the  smallest  one, 

While  some  drops,  where  lightning  rent, 

Show  the  final  storm  begun  — 


1 6  YOUTH  AND  ART. 


x. 


"  When  the  fire-fly  hides  its  spot, 

When  the  garden-voices  fail 
In  the  darkness  thick  and  hot, — 

Shall  another  voice  avail, 
That  shape  be  where  these  are  not?  50 


XI. 


"  Has  some  plague  a  longer  lease, 
Proffering  its  help  uncouth  ? 

Can't  one  even  die  in  peace? 

As  one  shuts  one's  eyes  on  youth, 

Is  that  face  the  last  one  sees?" 


XII. 


Oh  how  dark  your  villa  was, 
Windows  fast  and  obdurate  ! 

How  the  garden  grudged  me  grass 
Where  I  stood —  the  iron  gate 

Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass  ! 


YOUTH   AND   ART. 
i. 

• 

IT  once  might  have  been,  once  only : 
We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 
You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 


Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 

You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted  and  polished, 

Then  laughed  "They  will  see,  some  day, 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

in. 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song ; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled  and  twittered,  IO 

"  Kate  Brown  's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embittered  ! " 


YOUTH  AND  ART. 


17 

IV. 


I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 
Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster; 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 


T. 


We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos,  Cds>  ^ 
For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 
*  For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 


You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 
Cap  and  blouse —  nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too ; 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

VII. 

And  I  —  soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 
Was  torced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

VIII. 

No  harm  !     It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up  30 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt, 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up : 

IX. 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 

And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 
And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 

With  bulrush  and  watercresses. 


x. 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 

In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it? 
Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it?  40 


YOUTH  AND  ART. 

XI. 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 
(And  yet  the  memory  rankles) 

When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up  stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

XII. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good  ! 

"That  foreign  fellow,  —  who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano?" 


Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes,  50 

And  I  fetch  her  from/~oveT  the  way, 

Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes?" 

XIV. 

No,  no  :  you  would  not  be  rash, 

Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over; 
You  Ve  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 

And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

XV. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 

I  'm  queen  myself  at  bals-parts, 
I  Ve  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

And  you  're  dubbed  knight  and  an  R.A.  60 

XVI. 

Each  life  unfulfilled,  you  see  ; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy : 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired,  —  been  happy. 

xvir. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

And  people  suppose  me  clever ; 
This  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  for  ever 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  ,       19 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS. 


YOU  'RE  my  friend  : 
I  was  the  man  the  Duke  spoke  to ; 
I  helped  the  Duchess  to  cast  off  his  yoke,  too ; 
So,  here  's  the  tale  from  beginning  to  end, 
My  friend  ! 

ii. 

Ours  is  a  great  wild  country : 

If  you  climb  to  our  castle's  top, 

I  don't  see  where  your  eye  can  stop ; 

For  when  you  've  passed  the  corn-field  country, 

Where  vineyards  leave  off,  flocks  are  packed,  10 

And  sheep-range  leads  to  cattle-tract, 

And  cattle-tract  to  open-chase, 

And  open-chase  to  the  very  base 

Of  the  mountain  where,  at  a  funeral  pace, 

Round  about,  solemn  and  slow, 

One  by  one,  row  after  row, 

Up  and  up  the  pine-trees  go, 

So,  like  black  priests  up,  and  so 

Down  the  other  side  again 

To  another  greater,  wilder  country,  20 

That 's  one  vast  red  drear  burnt-up  plain, 

Branched  through  and  through  with  many  a  vein 

Whence  iron 's  dug,  and  copper 's  dealt ; 

Look  right,  look  left,  look  straight  before, 

Beneath  they  mine,  above  they  smelt, 

Copper-ore  and  iron-ore, 

And  forge  and  furnace  mould  and  melt, 

And  so  on,  more  and  ever  more, 

Till  at  the  last,  for  a  bounding  belt, 

Comes  the  salt  sand  hoar  of  the  great  sea-shore,  30 

—  And  the  whole  is  our  Duke's  country. 


I  was  born  the  day  this  present  Duke  was  — 

(And  O,  says  the  song,  ere  I  was  old!) 

In  the  castle  where  the  other  Duke  was  — 

(When  I  was  happy  and  young,  not  old!) 

I  in  the  kennel,  he  in  the  bower: 

We  are  of  like  age  to  an  hour. 

My  father  was  huntsman  in  that  day ; 


20  THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

Who  has  not  heard  my  father  say 

That,  when  a  boar  was  brought  to  bay,  40 

Three  times,  four  times  out  of  five, 

With  his  huntspear  he  'd  contrive 

To  get  the  killing-place  transfixed, 

And  pin  him  true,  both  eyes  betwixt? 

And  that 's  why  the  old  Duke  would  rather 

He  lost  a  salt-pit  than  my  father, 

And  loved  to  have  him  ever  in  call ; 

That  's  why  my  father  stood  in  the  hall 

When  the  old  Duke  brought  his  infant  out 

To  show  the  people,  and  while  they  passed  50 

The  wondrous  bantling  round  about, 

Was  first  to  start  at  the  outside  blast 

As  the  Kaiser's  courier  blew  his  horn, 

Just  a  month  after  the  babe  was  born. 

"And,"  quoth  the  Kaiser's  courier,  "  since 

The  Duke  has  got  an  heir,  our  Prince 

Needs  the  Duke's  self  at  his  side  :  " 

The  Duke  looked  down  and  seemed  to  wince, 

But  he  thought  of  wars  o'er  the  world  wide, 

Castles  a-fire,  men  on  their  march,  60 

The  toppling  tower,  the  crashing  arch  ; 

And  up  he  looked,  and  awhile  he  eyed 

The  row  of  crests  and  shields  and  banners 

Of  all  achievements  after  all  manners, 

And  "ay,"  said  the  Duke  with  a  surly  pride. 

The  more  was  his  comfort  when  he  died 

At  next  year's  end,  in  a  velvet  suit, 

With  a  gilt  glove  on  his  hand,  his  foot 

In  a  silken  shoe  for  a  leather  boot, 

Petticoated  like  a  herald,  70 

In  a  chamber  next  to  an  ante-room, 

Where  he  breathed  the  breath  of  page  and  groom, 

What  he  called  stink,  and  they,  perfume  : 

—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 
Mad  with  pride,  like  fire  to  manage ! 

They  should  have  got  his  cheek  fresh  tannage 

Such  a  day  as  to-day  in  the  merry  sunshine ! 

Had  they  stuck  on  his  fist  a  rough-foot  merlin! 

(Hark,  the  wind  's  on  the  heath  at  its  game! 

Oh  for  a  noble  falcon-lanner  80 

To  flap  each  broad  wing  like  a  banner, 

And  turn  in  the  wind,  and  dance  like  flame!) 

Had  they  broached  a  white-beer  cask  from  Berlin 

—  Or  if  you  incline  to  prescribe  mere  wine 
Put  to  his  lips,  when  they  saw  him  pine, 

A  cup  of  our  own  Moldavia  fine, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  21 

Cotnar  for  instance,  green  as  May  sorrel 
And  ropy  with  sweet,  —  we  shall  not  quarrel. 

IV. 

So,  at  home,  the  sick  tall  yellow  Duchess 

Was  left  with  the  infant  in  her  clutches,  90 

She  being  the  daughter  of  God  knows  who : 

And  now  was  the  time  to  revisit  her  tribe. 

Abroad  and  afar  they  went,  the  two, 

And  let  our  people  rail  and  gibe 

At  the  empty  hall  and  extinguished  fire, 

As  loud  as  we  liked,  but  ever  in  vain, 

Till  after  long  years  we  had  our  desire, 

And  back  came  the  Duke  and  his  mother  again. 


And  he  came  back  the  pertest  little  ape 

That  ever  affronted  human  shape  ;  loo 

Full  of  his  travel,  struck  at  himself. 
You  'd  say,  he  despised  our  bluff  old  ways? 
—  Not  he  !     For  in  Paris  they  told  the  elf 
Our  rough  North  land  was  the  Land  of  Lays, 
The  one  good  thing  left  in  evil  days ; 
Since  the  Mid-Age  was  the  Heroic  Time, 
And  only  in  wild  nooks  like  ours 
Could  you  taste  of  it  yet  as  in  its  prime, 
And  see  true  castles  with  proper  towers, 

Young-hearted  women,  old-minded  men,  no 

And  manners  now  as  manners  were  then. 
So.  all  that  the  old  Dukes  had  been,  without  knowing  it, 
This  Duke  would  fain  know  he  was,  without  being  it ; 
'T  was  not  for  the  joy's  self,  but  the  joy  of  his  showing  it, 
Nor  for  the  pride's  self,  but  the  pride  of  our  seeing  it, 
He  revived  all  usages  thoroughly  worn-out, 
The  souls  of  them  fumed-forth,  the  hearts  of  them  torn-out :, 
And  chief  in  the  chase  his  neck  he  perilled, 
On  a  lathy  horse,  all  legs  and  length, 

With  blood  for  bone,  all  speed,  no  strength  ;  120 

—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 
With  the  red  eye  slow  consuming  in  fire, 
And  the  thin  stiff  ear  like  an  abbey  spire ! 


Well,  such  as  he  was,  he  must  marry,  we  heard : 
And  out  of  a  convent,  at  the  word, 


22  THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

Came  the  lady,  in  time  of  spring. 
—  Oh,  old  thoughts  they  cling,  they  cling! 
That  day,  I  know,  with  a  dozen  oaths 
I  clad  myself  in  thick  hunting-clothes 

Fit  for  the  chase  of  urochs  or  buffle  130 

In  winter-time  when  you  need  to  muffle. 
But  the  Duke  had  a  mind  we  should  cut  a  figure, 
And  so  we  saw  the  lady  arrive  : 
My  friend,  I  have  seen  a  white  crane  bigger! 
She  was  the  smallest  lady  alive, 
Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness, 
Too  small,  almost,  for  the  life  and  gladness 
That  over-filled  her,  as  some  hive 
Out  of  the  bears'  reach  on  the  high  trees 
Is  crowded  with  its  safe  merry  bees  :  140 

In  truth,  she  was  not  hard  to  please! 
Up  she  looked,  down  she  looked,  round  at  the  mead, 
Straight  at  the  castle,  that 's  best  indeed 
To  look  at  from  outside  the  walls  : 
As  for  us,  styled  the  "  serfs  and  thralls," 
She  as  much  thanked  me  as  if  she  had  said  it, 
(With  her  eyes,  do  you  understand?) 
Because  I  patted  her  horse  while  I  led  it ; 
And  Max,  who  rode  on  her  other  hand, 

Said,  no  bird  flew  past  but  she  inquired  150 

What  its  true  name  was,  nor  ever  seemed  tired  — 
If  that  was  an  eagle  she  saw  hover, 
And  the  green  and  gray  bird  on  the  field  was  the  plover. 
When  suddenly  appeared  the  Duke  : 
And  as  down  she  sprung,  the  small  foot  pointed 
On  to  my  hand,  —  as  with  a  rebuke, 
And  as  if  his  backbone  were  not  jointed, 
The  Duke  stepped  rather  aside  than  forward 
And  welcomed  her  with  his  grandest  smile ; 
And,  mind  you,  his  mother  all  the  while  160 

Chilled  in  the  rear,  like  a  wind  to  Nor'ward ; 
•  And  up,  like  a  weary  yawn,  with  its  pullies 

Went,  in  a  shriek,  the  rusty  portcullis  : 
And,  like  a  glad  sky  the  north-wind  sullies, 
The  lady's  face  stopped  its  play, 
As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray ; 
For  such  things  must  begin  some  one  day. 


In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again  ? 

As  who  should  say,  "You  labour  in  vain! 

This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who  meant  170 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS.  23 

I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 

And  glad  in  his  sight ;  therefore,  glad  I  will  be." 

So,  smiling  as  at  first  went  she. 

VIII. 

She  was  active,  stirring,  all  fire  — 

Could  not  rest,  could  not  tire  — 

To  a  stone  she  might  have  given  life  ! 

(I  myself  loved  once,  in  my  day) 

—  For  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  huntsman's  wife, 

(I  had  a  wife,  I  know  what  I  say) 

Never  in  all  the  world  such  an  one !  180 

And  here  was  plenty  to  be  done, 

And  she  that  could  do  it,  great  or  small, 

She  was  to  do  nothing  at  all. 

There  was  already  this  man  in  his  post, 

This  in  his  station,  and  that  in  his  office, 

And  the  Duke's  plan  admitted  a  wife,  at  most, 

To  meet  his  eye  with  the  other  trophies. 

Now  outside  the  hall,  now  in  it, 

To  sit  thus,  stand  thus,  see  and  be  seen, 

At  the  proper  place  in  the  proper  minute,  190 

And  die  away  the  life  between. 

And  it  was  amusing  enough,  each  infraction 

Of  rule  —  (but  for  after-sadness  that  came) 

To  hear  the  consummate  self-satisfaction 

With  which  the  young  Duke  and  the  old  dame 

Would  let  her  advise,  and  criticise, 

And,  being  a  fool,  instruct  the  wise, 

And,  child-like,  parcel  out  praise  or  blame. 

They  bore  it  all  in  complacent  guise, 

As  though  an  artificer,  after  contriving  200 

A  wheel-work  image  as  if  it  were  living, 

Should  find  with  delight  it  could  motion  to  strike  him  ! 

So  found  the  Duke,  and  his  mother  like  him  : 

The  lady  hardly  got  a  rebuff — 

That  had  not  been  contemptuous  enough, 

With  his  cursed  smirk,  as  he  nodded  applause, 

And  kept  off  the  old  mother-cat's  claws. 

IX. 

So,  the  little  lady  grew  silent  and  thin, 

Paling  and  ever  paling, 
As  the  way  is  with  a  hid  chagrin ;  210 

And  the  Duke  perceived  that  she  was  ailing, 
And  said  in  his  heart,  "  'T  is  done  to  spite  me, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

But  I  shall  find  in  my  power  to  right  me  !  " 
Don't  swear,  friend!     The  old  one,  many  a  year, 
Is  in  hell,  and  the  Duke's  self  .  .  .  you  shall  hear. 

x. 

Well,  early  in  autumn,  at  first  winter-warning, 

When  the  stag  had  to  break  with  his  foot,  of  a  morning 

A  drinking-hole  out  of  the  fresh  tender  ice, 

That  covered  the  pond  till  the  sun,  in  a  trice, 

Loosening  it,  let  out  a  ripple  of  gold,  220 

And  another  and  another,  and  faster  and  faster, 

Till,  dimpling  to  blindness,  the  wide  water  rolled,  — 

Then  it  so  chanced  that  the  Duke  our  master 

Asked  himself  what  were  the  pleasures  in  season, 

And  found,  since  the  calendar  bade  him  be  hearty, 

He  should  do  the  Middle  Age  no  treason 

In  resolving  on  a  hunting-party. 

Always  provided,  old  books  showed  the  way  of  it ! 

What  meant  old  poets  by  their  strictures  ? 

And  when  old  poets  had  said  their  say  of  it,  230 

How  taught  old  painters  in  their  pictures? 

We  must  revert  to  the  proper  channels, 

Workings  in  tapestry,  paintings  on  panels, 

And  gather  up  woodcraft's  authentic  traditions. 

Here  was  food  for  our  various  ambitions, 

As  on  each  case,  exactly  stated  — 

To  encourage  your  dog,  now,  the  properest  chirrup, 

Or  best  prayer  to  St.  Hubert  ^  a  mounting  your  stirrup  — 

We  of  the  household  took  thought  and  debated. 

Blessed  was  he  whose  back  ached  with  the  jerkin  240 

His  sire  was  wont  to  do  forest-work  in ; 

Blesseder  he  who  nobly  sunk  "  ohs  " 

And  "  ahs  "  while  he  tugged  on  his  grandsire's  trunk-hose  ; 

What  signified  hats  if  they  had  no  rims  on, 

Each  slouching  before  and  behind  like  the  scallop, 

And  able  to  serve  at  sea  for  a  shallop, 

Loaded  with  lacquer  and  looped  with  crimson  ? 

So  that  the  deer  now,  to  make  a  short  rhyme  on 't, 

What  with  our  Venerers,  Prickers  and  Verderers, 

Might  hope  for  real  hunters  at  length  and  not  murderers,        250 

And  oh  the  Duke's  tailor,  he  had  a  hot  time  on 't ! 

XI. 

Now  you  must  know  that  when  the  first  dizziness 
Of  flap-hats  and  buff-coats  and  jack-boots  subsided, 
The  Duke  put  this  question,  "  The  Duke's  part  provided 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  2$ 

Had  not  the  Duchess  some  share  in  the  business  ?  " 

For  out  of  the  mouth  of  two  or  three  witnesses 

Did  he  establish  all  fit-or-unfitnesses : 

And,  after  much  laying  of  heads  together, 

Somebody's  cap  got  a  notable  feather 

By  the  announcement  with  proper  unction  260 

That  he  had  discovered  the  lady's  function ; 

Since  ancient  authors  gave  this  tenet, 

"  When  horns  wind  a  mort  and  the  deer  is  at  siege, 

Let  the  dame  of  the  castle  prick  forth  on  her  jennet, 

And  with  water  to  wash  the  hands  of  her  liege 

In  a  clean  ewer  with  a  fair  toweling, 

Let  her  preside  at  the  disemboweling." 

Now,  my  friend,  if  you  had  so  little  religion 

As  to  catch  a  hawk,  some  falcon-lanner, 

And  thrust  her  broad  wings  like  a  banner  270 

Into  a  coop  for  a  vulgar  pigeon ; 

And  if  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 

You  cut  her  claws,  and  sealed  her  eyes, 

And  clipped  her  wings,  and  tied  her  beak, 

Would  it  cause  you  any  great  surprise 

If,  when  you  decided  to  give  her  an  airing, 

You  found  she  needed  a  little  preparing? 

—  I  say,  should  you  be  such  a  curmudgeon, 

If  she  clung  to  the  perch,  as  to  take  it  in  dudgeon? 

Yet  when  the  Duke  to  his  lady  signified,  280 

Just  a  day  before,  as  he  judged  most  dignified, 

In  what  a  pleasure  she  was  to  participate, — 

And,  instead  of  leaping  wide  in  flashes, 

Her  eyes  just  lifted  their  long  lashes, 

As  if  pressed  by  fatigue  even  he  could  not  dissipate, 

And  duly  acknowledged  the  Duke's  forethought, 

But  spoke  of  her  health,  if  her  health  were  worth  aught, 

Of  the  weight  by  day  and  the  watch  by  night, 

And  much  wrong  now  that  used  to  be  right, 

So.  thanking  him.  declined  the  hunting, —  290 

Was  conduct  ever  more  affronting? 

With  all  the  ceremony  settled  — 

With  the  towel  ready,  and  the  sewer 

Polishing  up  his  oldest  ewer, 

And  the  jennet  pitched  upon,' a  piebald, 

Black-barred,  cream-coated  and  pink  eye-balled, — 

No  wonder  if  the  Duke  was  nettled! 

And  when  she  persisted  nevertheless,  — 

WTell.  I  suppose  here  's  the  time  to  confess 

That  there  ran  half  round  our  lady's  chamber  300 

A  balcony  none  of  the  hardest  to  clamber ; 

And  that  Jacynth  the  tire-woman,  ready  in  waiting, 


26  THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

Stayed  in  call  outside,  what  need  of  relating  ? 

And  since  Jacynth  was  like  a  June  rose,  why,  a  fervent 

Adorer  of  Jacynth  of  course  was  your  servant ; 

And  if  she  had  the  habit  to  peep  through  the  casement, 

How  could  I  keep  at  any  vast  distance? 

And  so,  as  I  say,  on  the  lady's  persistence, 

The  Duke,  dumb  stricken  with  amazement, 

Stood  for  a  while  in  a  sultry  smother,  310 

And  then,  with  a  smile  that  partook  of  the  awful, 

Turned  her  over  to  his  yellow  mother 

To  learn  what  was  held  decorous  and  lawful : 

And  the  mother  smelt  blood  with  a  cat-like  instinct, 

As  her  cheek  quick  whitened  thro1  all  its  quince-tinct. 

Oh,  but  the  lady  heard  the  whole  truth  at  once! 

What  meant  she?  —  Who  was  she? —  Her  duty  and  station, 

The  wisdom  of  age  and  the  folly  of  youth,  at  once, 

Its  decent  regard  and  its  fitting  relation  — 

In  brief,  my  friend,  set  all  the  devils  in  hell  free  320 

And  turn  them  out  to  carouse  in  a  belfry 

And  treat  the  priests  to  a  fifty-part  canon, 

And  then  you  may  guess  how  that  tongue  of  hers  ran  on! 

Well,  somehow  or  other  it  ended  at  last, 

And,  licking  her  whiskers,  out  she  passed ; 

And  after  her,  —  making  (he  hoped)  a  face 

Like  Emperor  Nero  or  Sultan  Saladin, 

Stalked  the  Duke's  self  with  the  austere  grace 

Of  ancient  hero  or  modern  paladin, 

From  door  to  staircase  —  oh  such  a  solemn  330 

Unbending  of  the  vertebral  column! 


However,  at  sunrise  our  company  mustered ; 

And  here  was  the  huntsman  bidding  unkennel, 

And  there  'neath  his  bonnet  the  pricker  blustered, 

With  feather  dank  as  a  bough  of  wet  fennel ; 

For  the  court-yard  walls  were  filled  with  fog 

You  might  have  cut  as  an  axe  chops  a  log  — 

Like  so  much  wool  for  colour  and  bulkiness  ; 

And  out  rode  the  Duke  in  a  perfect  sulkiness, 

Since,  before  breakfast,  a  man  feels  but  queasily,  340 

And  a  sinking  at  the  lower  abdomen 

Begins  the  day  with  indifferent  omen. 

And  lo,  as  he  looked  around  uneasily, 

The  sun  ploughed  the  fog  up  and  drove  it  asunder, 

This  way  and  that,  from  the  valley  under ; 

And.  looking  through  the  court-yard  arch, 

Down  in  the  valley,  what  should  meet  him 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS.  27 

But  a  troop  of  Gipsies  on  their  march? 

No  doubt  with  the  annual  gifts  to  greet  him. 

xin. 

Now,  in  your  land,  Gipsies  reach  you,  only  350 

After  reaching  all  lands  beside  ; 
North  they  go,  South  they  go,  trooping  or  lonely, 
And  still,  as  they  travel  far  and  wide, 
Catch  they  and  keep  now  a  trace  here,  a  trace  there, 
That  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  place  here,  a  place  there. 
But  with  us.  I  believe  they  rise  out  of  the  ground, 
And  nowhere  else,  I  take  it,  are  found 
With  the  earth-tint  yet  so  freshly  embrowned ; 
Born,  no  doubt,  like  insects  which  breed  on 
The  very  fruit  they  are  meant  to  feed  on.  360 

For  the  earth  —  not  a.  use  to  which  they  don't  turn  it, 
The  ore  that  grows  in  the  mountain's  womb, 
Or  the  sand  in  the  pits  like  a  honeycomb, 
They  sift  and  soften  it,  bake  it  and  burn  it  — 
Whether  they  weld  you,  for  instance,  a  snaffle 
With  side-bars  never  a  brute  can  baffle ; 
Or  a  lock  that  's  a  puzzle  of  wards  within  wards ; 
Or,  if  your  colt's  forefoot  inclines  to  curve  inwards, 
Horseshoes  they  hammer  which  turn  on  a  swivel 
'  And  won't  allow  the  hoof  to  shrivel.  370 

Then  they  cast  bells  like  the  shell  of  the  winkle 
That  keep  a  stout  heart  in  the  ram  with  their  tinkle ; 
But  the  sand  —  they  pinch  and  pound  it  like  otters ; 
Commend  me  to  Gipsy  glass-makers  and  potters! 
Glasses  they  'II  blow  you,  crystal-clear, 
Where  just  a  faint  cloud  of  rose  shall  appear, 
As  if  in  pure  water  you  dropped  and  let  die 
A  bruised  black-blooded  mulberry ; 
And  that  other  sort,  their  crowning  pride, 

With  long  white  threads  distinct  inside,  380 

Like  the  lake-flower's  fibrous  roots  which  dangle 
Loose  such  a  length  and  never  tangle, 
Where  the  bold  sword-lily  cuts  the  clear  waters, 
And  the  cup-lily  couches  with  all  the  white  daughters : 
Such  are  the  works  they  put  their  hand  to, 
The  uses  they  turn  and  twist  iron  and  sand  to. 
And  these  made  the  troop,  which  our  Duke  saw  sally 
Toward  his  castle  from  out  of  the  valley, 
Men  and  women,  like  new-hatched  spiders, 
Come  out  with  the  morning  to  greet  our  riders.  390 

And  up  they  wound  till  they  reached  the  ditch, 
Whereat  all  stopped  sav>,  one,  a  witch 


28  THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

That  I  knew,  as  she  hobbled  from  the  group, 

By  her  gait  directly  and  her  stoop, 

I,  whom  Jacynth  was  used  to  importune 

To  let  that  same  witch  tell  us  our  fortune. 

The  oldest  Gipsy  then  above  ground ; 

And,  sure  as  the  autumn  season  came  round, 

She  paid  us  a  visit  for  profit  or  pastime, 

And  every  time,  as  she  swore,  for  the  last  time.  400 

And  presently  she  was  seen  to  sidle 

Up  to  the  Duke  till  she  touched  his  bridle, 

So  that  the  horse  of  a  sudden  reared  up 

As  under  its  nose  the  old  witch  peered  up 

With  her  worn-out  eyes,  or  rather  eye-holes 

Of  no  use  now  but  to  gather  brine, 

And  began  a  kind  of  level  whine 

Such  as  they  used  to  sing  to  their  viols 

When  their  ditties  they  go  grinding 

Up  and  down  with  nobody  minding.  410 

And  then,  as  of  old,  at  the  end  of  the  humming 

Her  usual  presents  were  forthcoming 

—  A  dog-whistle  blowing  the  fiercest  of  trebles, 

(Just  a  sea-shore  stone  holding  a  dozen  fine  pebbles, 

Or  a  porcelain  mouth-piece  to  screw  on  a  pipe-end,  — 

And  so  she  awaited  her  annual  stipend. 

But  this  time,  the  Duke  would  scarcely  vouchsafe 

A  word  in  reply ;  and  in  vain  she  felt 

With  twitching  fingers  at  her  belt 

For  the  purse  of  sleek  pine-martin  pelt,  420 

Ready  to  put  what  he  gave  in  her  pouch  safe,  — 

Till,  either  to  quicken  his  apprehension, 

Or  possibly  with  an  after-intention, 

She  was  come,  she  said,  to  pay  her  duty 

To  the  new  Duchess,  the  youthful  beauty. 

No  sooner  had  she  named  his  lady, 

Than  a  shine  lit  up  the  face  so  shady. 

And  its  smirk  returned  with  a  novel  meaning: 

For  it  struck  him,  the  babe  just  wanted  weaning ; 

If  one  gave  her  a  taste  of  what  life  was  and  sorrow  430 

She,  foolish  to-day,  would  be  wiser  to-morrow ; 

And  who  so  fit  a  teacher  of  trouble 

As  this  sordid  crone  bent  well-nigh  double? 

So,  glancing  at  her  wolf-skin  vesture, 

(If  such  it  was,  for  they  grow  so  hirsute 

That  their  own  fleece  serves  for  natural  fur-suit) 

He  was  contrasting,  't  was  plain  from  his  gesture, 

The  life  of  the  lady  so  flower-like  and  delicate 

With  the  loathsome  squalor  of  this  helicat. 

I,  in  brief,  was  the  man  the  Duke  beckoned  440 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  29 

From  out  of  the  throng :  and  while  I  drew  near 

He  told  the  crone  —  as  I  since  have  reckoned 

By  the  way  he  bent  and  spoke  into  her  ear 

With  circumspection  and  mystery  — 

The  main  of  the  lady's  history, 

Her  frowardness  and  ingratitude ; 

And  for  all  the  crone's  submissive  attitude 

I  could  see  round  her  mouth  the  loose  plaits  tightening, 

And  her  brow  with  assenting  intelligence  brightening, 

As  though  she  engaged  with  hearty  goodwill  450 

Whatever  he  now  might  enjoin  to  fulfil, 

And  promised  the  lady  a  thorough  frightening. 

And  so,  just  giving  her  a  glimpse 

Of  a  purse,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  imps 

The  wing  of  the  hawk  that  shall  fetch  the  hernshaw, 

He  bade  me  take  the  Gipsy  mother 

And  set  her  telling  some  story  or  other 

Of  hill  or  dale,  oak-wood  or  fernshaw, 

To  wile  away  a  weary  hour 

For  the  lady  left  alone  in  her  bower,  460 

Whose  mind  and  body  craved  exertion 

And  yet  shrank  from  all  better  diversion. 

XIV. 

Then  clapping  heel  to  his  horse,  the  mere  curveter, 

Out  rode  the  Duke,  and  after  his  hollo 

Horses  and  hounds  swept,  huntsman  and  servitor, 

And  back  I  turned  and  bade  the  crone  follow. 

And  what  makes  me  confident  what 's  to  be  told  you 

Had  all  along  been  of  this  crone's  devising, 

Is,  that,  on  looking  round  sharply,  behold  you, 

There  was  a  novelty  quick  as  surprising :  470 

For  first,  she  had  shot  up  a  full  head  in  stature, 

And  her  step  kept  pace  with  mine  nor  faltered, 

As  if  age  had  foregone  its  usurpature, 

And  the  ignoble  mien  was  wholly  altered, 

And  the  face  looked  quite  of  another  nature. 

And  the  change  reached  too,  whatever  the  change  meant, 

Her  shaggy  wolf-skin  cloak's  arrangement : 

For  where  its  tatters  hung  loose  like  sedges, 

Gold  coins  were  glittering  on  the  edges, 

Like  the  band-roll  strung  with  tomans  480 

Which  proves  the  veil  a  Persian  woman's : 

And  under  her  brow,  like  a  snail's  horns  newly 

Come  out  as  after  the  rain  he  paces, 

Two  unmistakable  eye-points  duly 

Live  and  aware  looked  out  of  their  places. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

So,  we  went  and  found  Jacynth  at  the  entry 

Of  the  lady's  chamber  standing  sentry. 

I  told  the  command  and  produced  my  companion, 

And  Jacynth  rejoiced  to  admit  any  one, 

For  since  last  night,  by  the  same  token,  400 

Not  a  single  word  had  the  lady  spoken. 

They  went  in  both  to  the  presence  together, 

While  I  in  the  balcony  watched  the  weather. 

xv. 

And  now,  what  took  place  at  the  very  first  of  all, 

I  cannot  tell,  as  I  never  could  learn  it : 

Jacynth  constantly  wished  a  curse  to  fall 

On  that  little  head  of  hers  and  burn  it 

If  she  knew  how  she  came  to  drop  so  soundly 

Asleep  of  a  sudden,  and  there  continue 

The  whole  time  sleeping  as  profoundly  500 

As  one  of  the  boars  my  father  would  pin  you 

'Twixt  the  eyes  where  life  holds  garrison, 

—  Jacynth,  forgive  me  the  comparison! 

But  where  I  begin  my  own  narration 

Is  a  little  after  I  took  my  station 

To  breathe  the  fresh  air  from  the  balcony, 

And,  having  in  those  days  a  falcon  eye. 

To  follow  the  hunt  thro'  the  open  country, 

From  where  the  bushes  thinlier  crested 

The  hillocks,  to  a  plain  where 's  not  one  tree.  510 

When,  in  a  moment,  my  ear  was  arrested 

By  —  was  it  singing,  or  was  it  saying, 

Or  a  strange  musical  instrument  playing 

In  the  chamber?  —  and   to  be  certain 

I  pushed  the  lattice,  pulled  the  curtain, 

And  there  lay  Jacynth  asleep, 

Yet  as  if  a  watch  she  tried  to  keep, 

In  a  rosy  sleep  along  the  floor 

With  her  head  against  the  door ; 

While  in  the  midst,  on  the  seat  of  state,  520 

Was  a  queen  —  the  Gipsy  woman  late, 

With  head  and  face  downbent 

On  the  lady's  head  and  face  intent: 

For,  coiled  at  her  feet  like  a  child  at  ease, 

The  lady  sat  between  her  knees, 

And  o'er  them  the  lady's  clasped  hands  met. 

And  on  those  hands  her  chin  was  set. 

And  her  upturned  face  met  the  face  of  the  crone 

Wherein  the  eyes  had  grown  and  grown 

As  if  she  could  double  and  quadruple  530 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS.  3! 

At  pleasure  the  play  of  either  pupil 

—  Very  like,  by  her  hands'  slow  fanning, 
As  up  and  down  like  a  gor-crow's  flappers 
They  moved  to  measure,  or  like  bell-clappers. 
I  said,  "Is  it  blessing,  is  it  banning, 

Do  they  applaud  you  or  burlesque  you  — 

Those  hands  and  fingers  with  no  flesh  on?  " 

But,  just  as  I  thought  to  spring  in  to  the  rescue, 

At  once  I  was  stopped  by  the  lady's  expression : 

For  it  was  life  her  eyes  were  drinking  540 

From  the  crone's  wide  pair  above  unwinking, 

—  Life's  pure  fire,  received  without  shrinking, 
Into  the  heart  and  breast  whose  heaving 
Told  you  no  single  drop  they  were  leaving, 

—  Life,  that  filling  her,  passed  redundant 
Into  her  very  hair,  back  swerving 

Over  each  shoulder,  loose  and  abundant, 

As  her  head  thrown  back  showed  the  white  throat  curving  j 

And  the  very  tresses  shared  in  the  pleasure, 

Moving  to  the  mystic  measure,  550 

Bounding  as  the  bosom  bounded. 

I  stopped  short,  more  and  more  confounded, 

As  still  her  cheeks  burned  and  eyes  glistened, 

As  she  listened  and  she  listened. 

When  all  at  once  a  hand  detained  me, 

The  selfsame  contagion  gained  me, 

And  I  kept  time  to  the  wondrous  chime, 

Making  out  words  and  prose  and  rhyme, 

Till  it  seemed  that  the  music  furled 

Its  wings  like  a  task  fulfilled,  and  dropped  560 

From  under  the  words  it  first  had  propped, 

And  left  them  midway  in  the  world. 

Word  took  word  as  hand  takes  hand, 

I  could  hear  at  last,  and  understand ; 

And  when  I  held  the  unbroken  thread, 

The  Gipsy  said  :  — 

"  And  so  at  last  we  find  my  tribe, 

And  so  I  set  thee  in  the  midst, 

And  to  one  and  all  of  them  describe 

What  thou  saidst  and  what  thou  didst,  570 

Our  long  and  terrible  journey  through, 

And  all  thou  art  ready  to  say  and  do 

In  the  trials  that  remain. 

I  trace  them  the  vein  and  the  other  vein 

That  meet  on  thy  brow  and  part  again 

Making  our  rapid  mystic  mark  ; 

And  I  bid  my  people  prove  and  probe 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Each  eye's  profound  and  glorious  globe 

Till  they  detect  the  kindred  spark 

In  those  depths  so  dear  and  dark,  '580 

Like  the  spots  that  snap  and  burst  and  flee, 

Circling  over  the  midnight  sea. 

And  on  that  round  young  cheek  of  thine 

I  make  them  recognise  the  tinge, 

As  when  of  the  costly  scarlet  wine 

They  drip  so  much  as  will  impinge 

And  spread  in  a  thinnest  scale  afloat 

One  thick  gold  drop  from  the  olive's  coat 

Over  a  silver  plate  whose  sheen 

Still  thro'  the  mixture  shall  be  seen.  590 

For  so  I  prove  thee,  to  one  and  all, 

Fit,  when  my  people  ope  their  breast, 

To  see  the  sign,  and  hear  the  call, 

And  take  the  vow,  and  stand  the  test 

Which  adds  one  more  child  to  the  rest  — 

When  the  breast  is  bare  and  the  arms  are  wide, 

And  the  world  is  left  outside. 

For  there  is  probation  to  decree. 

And  many  and  long  must  the  trials  be 

Thou  shalt  victoriously  endure,  600 

If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes  are  sure. 

Like  a  jewel-finder's  fierce  assay 

Of  the  prize  he  dug  from  its  mountain-tomb,  — 

Let  once  the  vindicating  ray 

Leap  out  amid  the  anxious  gloom, 

And  steel  and  fire  have  done  their  part, 

And  the  prize  falls  on  its  finder's  heart : 

So,  trial  after  trial  past, 

Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  last 

Breathless,  half  in  trance  610 

With  the  thrill  of  the  great  deliverance, 

Into  our  arms  for  evermore  ; 

And  thou  shalt  know,  those  arms  once  curled 

About  thee,  what  we  knew  before, 

How  love  is  the  only  good  in  the  world. 

Henceforth  be  loved  as  heart  can  love, 

Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve! 

Stand  up,  look  below, 

It  is  our  life  at  thy  feet  we  throw 

To  step  with  into  light  and  joy ;  620 

Not  a  power  of  life  but  we  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want. 

Art  thou  the  tree  that  props  the  plant, 

Or  the  climbing  plant  that  seeks  the  tree  — 

Canst  thou  help  us,  must  we  help  thee? 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  33 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 

They  would  do  more  than  the  world  has  done ; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Ye  vainly  through  the  world  should  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might  630 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right : 

So,  to  approach  at  least  that  end, 

And  blend,  —  as  much  as  may  be,  blend 

Thee  with  us  or  us  with  thee,  — 

As  climbing  plant  or  propping  tree, 

Shall  some  one  deck  thee  over  and  down, 

Up  and  about,  with  blossoms  and  leaves? 

Fix  his  heart's  fruit  for  thy  garland-crown, 

Cling  with  his  soul  as  the  gourd-vine  cleaves 

Die  on  thy  boughs  and  disappear  640 

While  not  a  leaf  of  thine  is  sere? 

Or  is  the  other  fate  in  store, 

And  art  thou  fitted  to  adore, 

To  give  thy  wondrous  self  away, 

Ana  take  a  stronger  nature's  sway  ? 

I  foresee  and  could  foretell 

Thy  future  portion,  sure  and  well : 

But  those  passionate  eyes  speak  true,  speak  true. 

Let  them  say  what  thou  shalt  do! 

Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life,  650 

In  its  peace  or  in  its  strife, 

Never  shall  be  unobserved  ; 

We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 

And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear, — 

Lo,  hast  thou  kept  thy  path  or  swerved, 

We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 

With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 

Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 

Glad,  angry  —  but  indifferent,  no! 

Whether  it  be  thy  lot  to  go,  660 

For  the  good  of  us  all,  where  the  haters  meet 

In  the  crowded  city's  horrible  street ; 

Or  thou  step  alone  through  the  morass 

Where  never  sound  yet  was 

Save  the  dry  quick  clap  of  the  stork's  bill, 

For  the  air  is  still,  and  the  water  still, 

When  the  blue  breast  of  the  dipping  coot 

Dives  under,  and  all  is  mute. 

So,  at  the  last  shall  come  old  age, 

Decrepit  as  befits  that  stage ;  670 

How  else  wouldst  thou  retire  apart 

With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy  heart, 

And  gather  all  to  the  very  least 


34  THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE   DUCHESS. 

Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast, 

Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 

The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind? 

Ponder  on  the  entire  past 

Laid  together  thus  at  last, 

When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 

The  first  fresh  with  the  faded  hues,  680 

And  the  outline  of  the  whole, 

As  round  eve's  shades  their  framework  roll, 

Grandly  fronts  for  once  thy  soul!     ' 

And  then  as,  'mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 

Of  yet  another  morning  breaks, 

And  like  the  hand  which  ends  a  dream. 

Death,  with  the  might  of  his  sunbeam. 

Touches  the  flesh  and  the  soul  awakes. 

Then  —  ' 

Ay,  then  indeed  something  would  happen! 
But  what  ?     For  here  her  voice  changed  like  a  bird's  ;         690 
There  grew  more  of  the  music  and  less  of  the  words  ; 
Had  Jacynth  only  been  by  me  to  clap  pen 
To  paper  and  put  you  down  every  syllable 
With  those  clever  clerkly  fingers, 
All  I  've  forgotten  as  well  as  what  lingers 
In  this  old  brain  of  mine  that 's  but  ill  able 
To  give  you  even  this  poor  version 
Of  the  speech  I  spoil,  as  it  were,  with  stammering 
—  More  fault  of  those  who  had  the  hammering 
Of  prosody  into  me  and  syntax,  700 

And  did  it,  p<~>t  with  hobnails  but  tintacks ! 
But  to  return  from  this  excursion,  — 
Just,  do  you  mark,  when  the  song  was  sweetest, 
The  peace  most  deep  and  the  charm  completest, 
There  came,  shall  I  say,  a  snap  — 
And  the  charm  vanished! 
And  my  sense  returned,  so  strangely  banished, 
And,  starting  as  from  a  nap. 
I  knew  the  crone  was  bewitching  my  lady. 
With  Jacynth  asleep ;  and  but  one  spring  made  I  710 

Down  from  the  casement,  round  to  the  portal, — 
Another  minute  and  I  had  entered. — 
When  the  door  opened,  and  more  than  mortal 
Stood,  with  a  face  where  to  my  mind  centred 
All  beauties  I  ever  saw  or  shall  see, 
The  Duchess :  I  stopped  as  if  struck  by  palsy. 
She  was  so  different,  happy  and  beautiful, 
I  felt  at  once  that  all  was  best, 
And  that  I  had  nothing  to  do,  for  the  rest, 
But  wait  her  commands,  obey  and  be  dutiful.  720 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  35 

Not  that,  in  fact,  there  was  any  commanding ; 

I  saw  the  glory  of  her  eye, 

And  the  brow's  height  and  the  breast's  expanding, 

And  I  was  hers  to  live  or  to  die. 

As  for  finding  what  she  wanted, 

You  know  God  Almighty  granted 

Such  little  signs  should  serve  wild  creatures 

To  tell  one  another  all  their  desires, 

So  that  each  knows  what  his  friend  requires, 

And  does  its  bidding  without  teachers.  730 

I  preceded  her ;  the  crone 

Followed  silent  and  alone ; 

I  spoke  to  her.  but  she  merely  jabbered 

In  the  old  style ;  both  her  eyes  had  slunk 

Back  to  their  pits  ;  her  stature  shrunk ; 

In  short,  the  soul  in  its  body  sunk 

Like  a  blade  sent  home  to  its  scabbard. 

We  descended,  I  preceding ; 

Crossed  the  court  with  nobody  heeding ; 

All  the  world  was  at  the  chase,  740 

The  court-yard  like  a  desert-place, 

The  stable  emptied  of  its  small  fry ; 

I  saddled  myself  the  very  palfrey 

I  remember  patting  while  it  carried  her, 

The  day  she  arrived  and  the  Duke  married  her. 

And,  do  you  know,  though  it 's  easy  deceiving 

Oneself  in  such  matters,  I  can't  help  believing 

The  lady  had  not  forgotten  it  either, 

And  knew  the  poor  devil  so  much  beneath  her 

Would  have  been  only  too  glad,  for  her  service,  750 

To  dance  on  hot  ploughshares  like  a  Turk  dervise, 

But,  unable  to  pay  proper  duty  where  owing  it, 

Was  reduced  to  that  pitiful  method  of  showing  it: 

For  though  the  moment  I  began  setting 

His  saddle  on  my  own  nag  of  Berold's  begetting, 

(Not  that  I  meant  to  be  obtrusive) 

She  stopped  me,  while  his  rug  was  shifting, 

By  a  single  rapid  finger's  lifting, 

And,  with  a  gesture  kind  but  conclusive, 

And  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  refused  me, —  760 

I  say,  although  she  never  used  me, 

Yet  when  she  was  mounted,  the  Gipsy  behind  her, 

And  I  ventured  to  remind  her, 

I  suppose  with  a  voice  of  less  steadiness 

Than  usual,  for  my  feeling  exceeded  me, 

—  Something  to  the  effect  that  I  was  in  readiness 

Whenever  God  should  please  she  needed  me,  — 

Then,  do  you  know,  her  face  looked  down  on  me 


36  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

With  a  look  that  placed  a  crown  on  me, 

And  she  felt  in  her  bosom,  —  mark,  her  bosom  —  770 

And,  as  a  flower-tree  drops  its  blossom, 

Dropped  me  .   .  .  ah,  had  it  been  a  purse 

Of  silver,  my  friend,  or  gold  that's  worse, 

Why,  you  see,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 

So  understood,  —  that  a  true  heart  so  may  gain 

Such  a  reward,  —  I  should  have  gone  home  again, 

Kissed  Jacynth,  and  soberly  drowned  myself! 

It  was  a  little  plait  of  hair 

Such  as  friends  in  a  convent  make 

To  wear,  each  for  the  other's  sake, —  780 

This,  see,  which  at  my  breast  I  wear, 

Ever  did   (rather  to  Jacynth's  grudgment), 

And  ever  shall,  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

And  then,  —  and  then,  —  to  cut  short,  —  this  is  idle, 

These  are  feelings  it  is  not  good  to  foster, — 

I  pushed  the  gate  wide,  she  shook  the  bridle, 

And  the  palfrey  bounded,  —  and  so  we  lost  her. 

XVI. 

When  the  liquor's  out  why  clink  the  cannikin? 

I  did  think  to  describe  you  the  panic  in 

The  redoubtable  breast  of  our  master  the  mannikin,  790 

And  what  was  the  pitch  of  his  mother's  yellowness, 

How  she  turned  as  a  shark  to  snap  the  spare-rib 

Clean  off,  sailors  say,  from  a  pearl-diving  Carib, 

When  she  heard,  what  she  called  the  flight  of  the  feloness 

—  But  it  seems  such  child's  play, 

What  they  said  and  did  with  the  lady  away! 

And  to  dance  on,  when  we  've  lost  the  music, 

Always  made  me  —  and  no  doubt  makes  you  — sick. 

Nay,  to  my  mind,  the  world's  face  looked  so  stern 

As  that  sweet  form  disappeared  through  the  postern,  800 

She  that  kept  it  in  constant  good  humour, 

It  ought  to  have  stopped ;  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  more. 

But  the  world  thought  otherwise  and  went  on, 

And  my  head 's  one  that  its  spite  was  spent  on  : 

Thirty  years  are  fled  since  that  morning, 

And  with  them  all  my  head's  adorning. 

Nor  did  the  old  Duchess  die  outright, 

As  you  expect,  of  suppressed  spite, 

The  natural  end  of  every  adder 

Not  suffered  to  empty  its  poison-bladder:  810 

But  she  and  her  son  agreed,  I  take  it, 

That  no  one  should  touch  on  the  story  to  wake  it, 

For  the  wound  in  the  Duke's  pride  rankled  fiery ; 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 


37 


So,  they  made  no  search  and  small  inquiry : 

And  when  fresh  Gipsies  have  paid  us  a  visit,  I  've 

Noticed  the  couple  were  never  inquisitive, 

But  told  them  they  Ve  folks  the  Duke  don't  want  here, 

And  bade  them  make  haste  and  cross  the  frontier. 

Brief,  the  Duchess  was  gone  and  the  Duke  was  glad  of  it, 

And  the  old  one  was  in  the  young  one's  stead,  820 

And  took,  in  her  place,  the  household's  head, 

And  a  blessed  time  the  household  had  of  it! 

And  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say,  cautious 

How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on  the  nauseous, 

I  could  favour  you  with  sundry  touches 

Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the  Duchess 

Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her  cheek's  yellowness 

(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 

Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 

Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of  ceruse :  830 

In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to  udder 

Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 

XVII. 

You  're  my  friend  — 

What  a  thing  friendship  is,  world  without  end! 

How  it  gives  the  heart  and  soul  a  stir-up 

As  if  somebody  broached  you  a  glorious  runlet, 

And  poured  out,  all  lovelily,  sparklingly,  sunlit, 

Our  green  Moldavia,  the  streaky  syrup, 

Cotnar  as  old  as  the  time  of  the  Druids  — 

Friendship  may  match  with  that  monarch  of  fluids ;  840 

Each  supples  a  dry  brain,  fills  you  its  ins-and-outs, 

Gives  your  life's  hour-glass  a  shake  when  the  thin  sand  doubts 

Whether  to  run  on  or  stop  short,  and  guarantees 

Age  is  not  all  made  of  stark  sloth  and  arrant  ease. 

I  have  seen  my  little  lady  once  more, 

Jacynth,  the  Gipsy,  Berold,  and  the  rest  of  it, 

For  to  me  spoke  the  Duke,  as  I  told  you  before ; 

I  always  wanted  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it : 

And  now  it  is  made — why,  my  heart's  blood,  that  went  trickle, 

Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy  driblets,  850 

Is  pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the  main  ventricle, 

And  genially  floats  me  about  the  giblets. 

I  '11  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do : 

I  must  see  this  fellow  his  sad  life  through  — 

He  is  our  Duke,  after  all, 

And  I,  as  he  says,  but  a  serf  and  thrall. 

My  father  was  born  here,  and  I  inherit 

His  fame,  a  chain  he  bound  his  son  with ; 


38  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Could  I  pay  in  a  lump  I  should  prefer  it, 

But  there 's  no  mine  to  blow  up  and  get  done  with :  86<J 

So,  I  must  stay  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

For,  as  to  our  middle-age-manners-adapter, 

Be  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  on  or  sorry  on, 

Some  day  or  other,  his  head  in  a  morion 

And  breast  in  a  hauberk,  his  heels  he  '11  kick  up, 

Slain  by  an  onslaught  fierce  of  hiccup. 

And  then,  when  red  doth  the  sword  of  our  Duke  rust, 

And  its  leathern  sheath  lie  o'ergrown  with  a  blue  crust, 

Then  I  shall  scrape  together  my  earnings  ; 

For,  you  see,  in  the  churchyard  Jacynth  reposes,  870 

And  our  children  all  went  the  way  of  the  roses ; 

It 's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings. 

One  needs  but  little  tackle  to  travel  in ; 

So,  just  one  stout  cloak  shall  I  indue : 

And  for  a  staff,  what  beats  the  javelin 

With  which  his  boars  my  father  pinned  you  ? 

And  then,  for  a  purpose  you  shall  hear  presently, 

Taking  some  Cotnar,  a  tight  plump  skinful, 

I  shall  go  journeying,  who  but  I,  pleasantly! 

Sorrow  is  vain  and  despondency  sinful.  880 

What 's  a  man's  age  ?     He  must  hurry  more,  that 's  all ; 

Cram  in  a  day,  what  his  youth  took  a  year  to  hold : 

When  we  mind  labour,  then  only,  we  're  too  old  — 

What  age  had  Methusalem  when  he  begat  Saul  ? 

And  at  last,  as  its  haven  some  buffeted  ship  sees, 

(Come  all  the  way  from  the  north-parts  with  sperm  oil) 

I  hope  to  get  safely  out  of  the  turmoil 

And  arrive  one  day  at  the  land  of  the  Gipsies, 

And  find  my  lady,  or  hear  the  last  news  of  her 

From  some  old  thief  and  son  of  Lucifer,  890 

His  forehead  chapleted  green  with  wreathy  hop, 

Sunburned  all  over  like  an  ^thiop. 

And  when  my  Cotnar  begins  to  operate 

And  the  tongue  of  the  rogue  to  run  at  a  proper  rate, 

And  our  wine-skin,  tight  once,  shows  each  flaccid  dent, 

I  shall  drop  in  with  —  as  if  by  accident  — 

"  You  never  knew  then,  how  it  all  ended, 

What  fortune  good  or  bad  attended 

The  little  lady  your  Queen  befriended  ? " 

—  And  when  that 's  Told  me,  what 's  remaining?  900 

This  world  's  too  hard  for  my  explaining. 

The  same  wise  judge  of  matters  equine 

Who  still  preferred  some  slim  four-year-old 

To  the  big-boned  stock  of  mighty  Berold, 

And,  for  strong  Cotnar,  drank  French  weak  wine, 

He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner! 


SONG  FROM  "  PSPPA    PASSES." 


39 


Smooth  Jacob  still  robs  homely  Esau : 

Now  up,  now  down,  the  world's  one  see-saw. 

—  So,  I  shall  find  out  some  snug  corner 

Under  a  hedge,  like  Orson  the  wood-knight,  910 

Turn  myself  round  and  bid  the  world  good  night ; 

And  sleep  a  sound  sleep  till  the  trumpet's  blowing 

Wakes  me  (unless  priests  cheat  us  laymen) 

To  a  world  where  will  be  no  further  throwing 

Pearls  before  swine  that  can't  value  them.     Amen! 


SONG   FROM   "PIPPA   PASSES." 

npHE  year's  at  the  spring, 
_L    And  day 's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning 's  at  seven ; 
The  hill-side  's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn 

(God  's  in  His  heaven  — 
All 's  right  with  the  world ! 


"HOW  THEY   BROUGHT   THE   GOOD   NEWS   FROM 
GHENT  TO   AIX." 

[16-.] 

I. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 
"Good  speed!  "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 
"  Speed ! "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through  ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

II. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 

Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place ; 

I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 

Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right,  IO 

Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 

Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 


'T  was  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while  we  drew  neai 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 

At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime, 

So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there  is  time!" 

IV. 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one,  30 

To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray : 

v. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track ; 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, —  ever  that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on.  30 

VI. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris  "  Stay  spur! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault 's  not  in  her, 

We  '11  remember  at  Aix  "  —  for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

VII. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I. 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff;         40 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

VIII. 

"  How  they  '11  greet  us  !"  —  and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 


FROM  GHENT  TO  ATX."  41 

^.nd  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
)f  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
Vith  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  'to  the  brim, 
\.nd  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

IX. 

rhen  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

>hook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all,  50 

itood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

"ailed  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer ; 

"lapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

fill  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

x. 

V.nd  all  I  remember  is,  —  friends  flocking  round 

^.s  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 

^.nd  uo  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 

U  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

Vhich  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Vas  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent.         60 


SONG  FROM  "PARACELSUS." 


HEAP  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 
Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls. 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair :  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals. 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island  gain. 


And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 

Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud  10 

Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled;; 

Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 

From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 


42        THROUGH  THE  METIDJA   TO  ABD-EL-KADR. 

THROUGH   THE   METIDJA   TO   ABD-EL-KADR. 
1842. 


AS  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 
So  its  tide  rocks  my  side, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
That,  as  I  were  double-eyed, 
He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 
Is  descried,  ways  untried, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

n. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 

To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied,  10 

Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  prida 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied  — 

Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

ill. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

When  an  inner  voice  has  cried, 

The  sands  slide,  nor  abide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride)  20 

O'er  each  visioned  homicide 

That  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied?) 

To  reside  —  where  he  died, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

IV- 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  horse  plied, 

Yet  his  hide,  streaked  and  pied, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Shews  where  sweat  has  sprung  and  dried, 

—  Zebra-footed,  ostrich-thighed  —  30 

How  has  vied  stride  with  stride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride! 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 


43 


v. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

Ere  I  pried,  she  should  hide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

All  that 's  meant  me  —  satisfied 

When  the  Prophet  and  the  Bride 

Stop  veins  I  'd  have  subside 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride!  40 


INCIDENT  OF   THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 
I. 

YOU  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 
A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


II. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall,  10 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall  "  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


III. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himselferect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect —  20 

(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


44  THE  LOST  LEADER. 

IV. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal  ^  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire,  30 

Perched  him !  "     The  chiefs  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

v. 

The  chiefs  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes. 
"  You  're  wounded ! "     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
u  I  'm  killed,  Sire !  "     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead.  40 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 


JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 
Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat  — 
.Kound  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others,  she  lets  us  devote ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed  : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him.  honoured  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us, —  they  watch  from  their  graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 

u. 

We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  thro'  his  presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre ; 


IN  A    GONDOLA. 


45 


Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire :  20 

Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part —  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him  —  strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ;  30 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 


IN  A  GONDOLA.  /?  ~yb  t^ 


I 


He  sings. 
SEND  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 


In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part  ; 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling-place. 

She  speaks. 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 

My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 

Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord,  10 

In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way: 

"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 

She  bids  me  wear  ;  which  "  (say  again) 

"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 

A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 

Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

And  yet  once  more  say  ...  no  word  more! 

Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same,  20 

Familial  Vy  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 


46  IN  A    GONDOLA. 


At  once  our  secret  to  them  ali. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame  — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds! 

What 's  left  but  —  all  of  me  to  take  ? 

I  am  the  Three's  :  prevent  them,  slake  30 

Your  thirst !     'T  is  said,  the  Arab  sage 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes  :  so,  sweet  mage, 

Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage! 

He  sings. 
I. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing  40 

To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride : 

Past  we  glide ! 


Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried : 

Past  we  glide! 

She  sings. 

I. 

The  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe  50 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

n. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now  ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 


IN  A   GONDOLA. 


47 


My  heart  at  some  noonday,  — 

A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 

The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up,  60 

And  passively  its  shattered  cup 

Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings. 

I. 

What  are  we  two? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can  pursue, 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe  ; 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 

The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 

Thy  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  for  ever  !     And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thoul  70 

II. 

Say  again,  what  we  are? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  withering  away 

Some  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  for  ever!     And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou! 

He  muses. 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest? 

The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast?  80 

To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 

Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 

Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 

An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers,  thrust 

To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must ; 

Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves? 

He  speaks,  musing. 

Lie  back  :  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you? 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 

A  wing ;  from  this,  another  wing ; 

Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you!  90 

Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 

With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 


48  IN  A    GONDOLA. 

They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 
Broader,  into  burning  gold, 
Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 
Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 
As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 
Defiance  from  you  to  the  world  ! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real !  IOG 

And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart ! 
Thanks  !    Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art  ! 

Still  he  muses. 
I. 

'      What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader?     While  there  's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back ;  I  reel ; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  I  feel? 

II. 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves,  HO 

Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 

Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 

By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 

They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 

And  ...  on  thy  breast  I  sink! 

She  replies,  musing. 
I. 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat  side,  elbow-deep, 

As  I  do :  thus  :  were  death  so  unlike  sleep, 

Caught  this  way  ?     Death  's  to  fear  from  flame  or  steel, 

Or  poison  doubtless  ;  but  from  water —  feel! 

il. 

Go  find  the  bottom!     Would  you  stay  me?    There!  120 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon-grass 

To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 

I  flung  away :  since  you  have  praised  my  hair, 

'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 


IN  A   GONDOLA. 


He  speaks. 


49 


Row  home?  must  we  row  home?     Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front 's  demurely 

Over  the  Guidecca  piled  ; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 

All 's  the  set  face  of  a  child :  130 

But  behind  it,  where  's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face ? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead ! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you —  140 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony, 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled,  150 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 

The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain, 

As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 

Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again  ! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine!     What  should  your  chamber  do?  160 

—  With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 

At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 

Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 

These  objects,  and,  while  day  lasts,  weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 

That  dumb  they  look  :  your  harp,  believe 

With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 


50  IN  A    GONDOLA. 

Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself  170 

Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 

Make  murmur,  vvheresoe'er  they  graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 

And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 

Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph  1 80 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 

And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell ! 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 

To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend  ! 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 

You  'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 

Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 

To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 

Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen  190 

You  'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 

Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser  — 

As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 

And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 

On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 

Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 

What  litter  now  the  board  employs 

Whereon  he  signed  a  document 

That  got  him  murdered!     Each  enjoys 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break  200 

The  sport  up :  so,  indeed  must  make 

More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks. 
I. 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze!     If  the  ribbon 's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching :  keep  away! 

II. 

Your  gondola  —  let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about  210 


A  LOVERS^   QUARREL.  51 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 

As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There  's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper ;  safe  are  we. 

Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me? 

Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago! 

Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 

The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 

Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my  hand  220 

More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to  land, 

And  say,  "All  thanks,  Siora!"  — 

Heart  to  heart 

And  lips  to  lips !     Yet  once  more,  ere  we  part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou  art! 

He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 

It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet !  —  and  best 

Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 

Still  kiss  me!     Care  not  for  the  cowards!     Care 

Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 

My  blood  will  hurt!     The  Three,  I  do  not  scorn 

To  death,  because  they  never  lived  :  but  I  230 

Have  lived  indeed,  and  so —  (yet  one  more  kiss)  —  can  die! 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL. 


OH,  what  a  dawn  of  day! 
How  the  March  sun  feels  like  May! 
All  is  blue  again 
After  last  night's  rain, 
And  the  South  dries  the  hawthorn-spray. 

Only,  my  Love's  away! 
I  'd  as  lief  that  the  blue  were  gray. 


Runnels,  which  rillets  swell, 
Must  be  dancing  down  the  dell, 

With  a  foaming  head  lo 

On  the  beryl  bed 
Paven  smooth  as  a  hermit's  cell: 

Each  with  a  tale  to  tell, 
Could  my  Love  but  attend  as  well. 


52  A  LOVERS^   QUARREL. 


Dearest,  three  months  ago! 

When  we  lived  blocked-up  with  snow,  — 

When  the  wind  would  edge 

In  and  in  his  wedge, 
In,  as  far  as  the  point  could  go  — 

Not  to  our  ingle,  though,  20 

Where  we  loved  each  the  other  so! 

IV. 

Laughs  with  so  little  cause! 

We  devised  games  out  of  straws. 

We  would  try  and  trace 

One  another's  face 
In  the  ash,  as  an  artist  draws ; 

Free  on  each  other's  flaws, 
How  we  chattered  like  two  church  daws! 


What 's  in  the  "  Times  "?  —  a  scold 

At  the  Emperor  deep  and  cold ;  30 

He  has  taken  a  bride 

To  his  gruesome  side, 
That 's  as  fair  as  himself  is  bold : 

There  they  sit  ermine-stoled, 
And  she  powders  her  hair  with  gold. 

VI. 

Fancy  the  Pampas'  sheen! 

Miles  and  miles  of  gold  and  green 

Where  the  sunflowers  blow 

In  a  solid  glow, 
And  —  to  break  now  and  then  the  screen—  40 

Black  neck  and  eyeballs  keen, 
Up  a  wild  horse  leaps  between! 


Try,  will  our  table  turn? 

Lay  your  hands  there  light,  and  yearn 

Till  the  yearning  slips 

Thro'  the  finger-tips 
In  a  fire  which  a  few  discern, 

And  a  very  few  feel  burn, 
And  the  rest,  they  may  live  and  learn! 


A  LOVERS^   QUARREL.  53 


Then  we  would  up  and  pace,  50 

For  a  change,  about  the  place, 

Each  with  arm  o'er  neck : 

'T  is  our  quarter-deck, 
We  are  seamen  in  woeful  case. 

Help  in  the  ocean-space! 
Or,  if  no  help,  we  '11  embrace. 

IX. 

See,  how  she  looks  now,  dressed 
In  a  sledging-cap  and  vest! 

'T  is  a  huge  fur  cloak  — 

Like  a  reindeer's  yoke  60 

Falls  the  lappet  along  the  breast : 

Sleeves  for  her  arms  to  rest, 
Or  to  hang,  as  my  Love  likes  best. 

x. 

Teach  me  to  flirt  a  fan 
As  the  Spanish  ladies  can, 

Or  I  tint  your  lip 

With  a  burnt  stick's  tip 
And  you  turn  into  such  a  man! 

Just  the  two  spots  that  span 
Half  the  bill  of  the  young  male  swan.  70 

XI. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago, 
When  the  mesmerizer  Snow 

With  his  hand's  first  sweep 

Put  the  earth  to  sleep, 
'T  was  a  time  when  the  heart  could  show 

All  —  how  was  earth  to  know, 
Neath  the  mute  hand's  to-and-fro? 

XII. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago, 
When  we  loved  each  other  so, 

Lived  and  loved  the  same  80 

Till  an  evening  came 
When  a  shaft  from  the  devil's  bow 

Pierced  to  our  ingle-glow, 
And  the  friends  were  friend  and  foe! 


54  A  LOVERS^   QUARREL. 


Not  from  the  heart  beneath  — 
'T  was  a  bubble  born  of  breath, 

Neither  sneer  nor  vaunt, 

Nor  reproach  nor  taunt. 
See  a  word,  how  it  severeth  ! 

Oh,  power  of  life  and  death  90 

?n  the  tongue,  as  the  Preacher  saith! 

XIV. 

Woman,  and  will  you  cast 
For  a  word,  quite  off  at  last 

Me,  your  own,  your  You,  — 

Since,  as  truth  is  true, 
I  was  You  all  the  happy  past  — 

Me  do  you  leave  aghast 
With  the  memories  We  amassed? 

xv. 

Love,  if  you  knew  the  light 

That  your  soul  casts  in  my  sight,  100 

How  I  look  to  you 

For  the  pure  and  true, 
And  the  beauteous  and  the  right,  — 

Bear  with  a  moment's  spite 
When  a  mere  mote  threats  the  white! 

XVI. 

What  of  a  hasty  word? 

Is  the  fleshly  heart  not  stirred 

By  a  worm's  pin-prick 

Where  its  roots  are  quick? 
See  the  eye,  by  a  fly's  foot  blurred —  no 

Ear,  when  a  straw  is  heard 
Scratch  the  brain's  coat  of  curd! 

XVII. 

Foul  be  the  world  or  fair 
More  or  less,  how  can  I  care? 

'T  is  the  world  the  same 

For  my  praise  or  blame, 
And  endurance  is  easy  there. 

Wrong  in  the  one  thing  rare  — 
Oh,  it  is  hard  to  bear! 


A  LOVERS^   QUARREL.  55 

XVIII. 

Here  's  the  spring  back  or  close,  120 

When  the  almond-blossom  blows ; 

We  shall  have  the  word 

In  a  minor  third 
There  is  none  but  the  cuckoo  knows : 

Heaps  of  the  guelder-rose! 
I  must  bear  with  it,  I  suppose. 

XIX. 

Could  but  November  come, 
Were  the  noisy  birds  struck  dumb 

At  the  warning  slash 

Of  his  driver's-lash  —  130 

I  would  laugh  like  the  valiant  Thumb 

Facing  the  castle  glum 
And  the  giant's  fee-faw-fum  ! 

xx. 

Then,  were  the  world  well-stripped 
Of  the  gear  wherein  equipped 

We  can  stand  apart, 

Heart  dispense  with  heart 
In  the  sun,  with  the  flowers  unnipped,  — 

Oh,  the  world's  hangings  ripped, 
We  were  both  in  a  bare-walled  crypt!  140 

XXI. 

Each  in  the  crypt  would  cry 

"  But  one  freezes  here !  and  why  ? 

When  a  heart,  as  chill, 

At  my  own  would  thrill 
Back  to  life,  and  its  fires  out-fly? 

Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die? 
The  rest  .  .  .  settle  by-and-by! " 


So,  she  'd  efface  the  score, 
And  forgive  me  as  before. 

It  is  twelve  o'clock :  150 

I  shall  hear  her  knock 
In  the  worst  of  a  storm's  uproar: 

I  shall  pull  her  through  the  door, 
I  shall  have  her  for  evermore! 


56  EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES. 


EARTH'S   IMMORTALITIES. 

FAME. 

SEE,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in  time, 
Our  poet's  wants  the  freshness  of  its  prime ; 
Spite  of  the'  sexton's  browsing  horse,  the  sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding  osier  rods ; 
Headstone  and  half-sunk  footstone  lean  awrv, 
Wanting  the  brick-work  promised  by-and-by ; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er  plate, 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name  and  date 

LOVE. 

So,  the  year 's  done  with  ! 

{Love  me  for  ever .')  IO 

All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavour ; 
May-wreaths  that  bound  me 

June  needs  must  sever ; 
Now  snows  fall  round  me, 

Quenching  June's  fever  — 

{Love  me  for  ever  I) 


THE   LAST  RIDE   TOGETHER 


I  SAID  —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails. 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be  — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave,  —  I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
—  And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame,  10 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

II. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers ; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER.  57 

When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance :  right! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again  ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 

Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride,  20 

So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 

ni. 

Hush!  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions  —  sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening  star's  at  once  — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near,  30 

Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here!  — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear! 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

IV. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 

So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss.  40 

Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

v. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds  ? 
We  rode  ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought,  —  All  labour,  yet  no  less  50 

Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past! 
I  hoped  she  would  love  me  ;  here  we  ride. 

VI. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave.  60 

There 's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing!  what  atones? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones= 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

VII. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?     Well, 

Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 

What  we  felt  only  ;  you  expressed 

You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best,  70 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'T  is  something,  nay  't  is  much  :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what 's  best  for  men  ?      A 
Are  you  —  poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time  —  \Jtf ,    C& 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  never  have  turned  a  rhyme?/  X   y  ~)  -   J  K>  - 

Sing,  riding  's  a  joy!     For  me,  I  ride. 

VIII. 

And  you,  great  sculptor  —  so,  you  gave 

A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 

And  that 's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn  80 

To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine  ? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end!" 

I  gave  my  youth  ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 


Who  knows  what 's  fit  for  us  ?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 


MESMERISM.  59 

My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond  — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a.  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?     Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

x. 

And  yet  —  she  has  not  spoke  so  long!  100 

What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  for  ever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity,  — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  for  ever  ride?  no 


MESMERISM, 
i. 

ALL  I  believed  is  true! 
I  am  able  yet 
All  I  want,  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new: 
Dare  I  trust  the  same  to  you  ? 

ii. 

If  at  night,  when  doors  are  shut, 

And  the  wood-worm  picks, 

And  the  death-watch  ticks, 
And  the  bar  has  a  flag  of  smut, 
And  a  cat 's  in  the  water-butt  —  10 

in. 

And  the  socket  floats  and  flares, 
And  the  house-beams  groan, 
And  a  foot  unknown 


6o  MESMERISM. 

Is  surmised  on  the  garret-stairs, 
And  the  locks  slip  unawares  — 


And  the  spider,  to  serve  his  ends? 

By  a  sudden  thread, 

Arms  and  legs  outspread, 
On  the  table's  midst  descends, 
Comes  to  find,  God  knows  what  friends!  —  2O 


v. 


If  since  eve  drew  in,  I  say, 
I  have  sat  and  brought 
(So  to  speak)  my  thought 
To  bear  on  the  woman  away, 
Till  I  felt  my  hair  turn  gray  — 


Till  I  seemed  to  have  and  hold, 

In  the  vacancy 

'  Twixt  the  wall  and  me 
From  the  hair-plait's  chestnut-gold 
To  the  foot  in  its  muslin  fold —  30 


Havo  and  hold,  then  and  there, 
Her,  from  head  to  foot, 
Breathing  and  mute, 

Passive  and  yet  aware, 

In  the  grasp  of  my  steady  stare - 


Hold  and  have,  there  and  then, 

All  her  body  and  soul 

That  completes  my  whole, 
All  that  women  add  to  men, 
In  the  clutch  of  my  steady  ken  —  40 

IX. 

Having  and  holding,  till 

I  imprint  her  fast 

On  the  void  at  last 
As  the  sun  does  whom  he  will 
By  the  calotypist's  skill  — 


MESMERISM.  6: 

x. 

Then,  —  if  my  heart's  strength  serve, 

And  thro'  all  and  each 

Of  the  veils  I  reach 
To  her  soul  and  never  swerve, 
Knitting  an  iron  nerve —  5° 

XI. 

Command  her  soul  to  advance 

And  inform  the  shape 

Which  has  made  escape 
And  before  my  countenance 
Answers  me  glance  for  glance— 

xn. 

I,  still  with  a  gesture  fit 

Of  my  hands  that  best 

Do  my  soul's  behest, 
Pointing  the  power  from  it, 
While  myself  do  steadfast  sit  —  60 

XIII. 

Steadfast  and  still  the  same 

On  my  object  bent, 

While  the  hands  give  vent 
To  my  ardour  and  my  aim 
And  break  into  very  flame  — 


xrv. 

Then  I  reach,  I  must  believe, 

Not  her  soul  in  vain, 

For  to  me  again 
It  reaches,  and  past  retrieve 
Is  wound  in  the  toils  I  weave ;  70 


xv. 

And  must  follow  as  I  require, 
As  befits  a  thrall, 
Bringing  flesh  and  all, 
Essence  and  earth-attire, 
To  the  source  of  the  tractile  fire: 


62  MESMERISM. 


XVI. 


Till  the  house  called  hers,  not  mine, 

With  a  growing  weight 

Seems  to  suffocate 
If  she  break  not  its  leaden  line 
And  escape  from  its  close  confine.  80 


XVII. 


Out  of  doors  into  the  night ! 
On  to  the  maze 
Of  the  wild  wood-ways, 
Not  turning  to  left  nor  right 
From  the  pathway,  blind  with  sight- 


XVIII. 


Making  thro'  rain  and  wind 

O'er  the  broken  shrubs, 

'Twixt  the  stems  and  stubs, 
With  a  still,  composed,  strong  mind, 
Not  a  care  for  the  world  behind —  90 


XIX. 


Swifter  and  still  more  swift, 
As  the  crowding  peace 
Doth  to  joy  increase 
In  the  wide  blind  eyes  uplift 
Thro'  the  darkness  and  the  drift! 


xx. 


While  I  —  to  the  shape,  I  too 

Feel  my  soul  dilate : 

Not  a  whit  abate, 

And  relax  not  a  gesture  due, 

As  I  see  my  belief  come  true. 


XXI. 


For,  there  !  have  I  drawn  or  no 

Life  to  that  lip  ? 

Do  my  fingers  dip 
In  a  flame  which  again  they  throw 
On  the  cheek  that  breaks  a-glow? 


MESMERISM.  63 


XXII. 


Ha!  was  the  hair  so  first? 

What,  unfilleted, 

Made  alive,  and  spread 
Thro'  the  void  with  a  rich  outburst, 
Chestnut  gold-interspersed  ?  no 


XXIII. 


Like  the  doors  of  a  casket-shrine, 

See,  on  either  side, 

Her  two  arms  divide 
Till  the  heart  betwixt  makes  sign, 
Take  me,  for  I  am  thine  ? 


XXIV. 


u  Now —  now  "  —  the  door  is  heard! 

Hark,  the  stairs!  and  near  — 

Nearer  —  and  here  — 
«  Now  !  "  and,  at  call  the  third, 
She  enters  without  a  word.  120 


xxv. 


On  doth  she  march  and  on 
To  the  fancied  shape ; 
It  is,  past  escape, 
Herself,  now :  the  dream  is  done 
And  the  shadow  and  she  are  one. 


XXVI. 


First,  I  will  pray.     Do  Thou 

That  ownest  the  soul, 

Yet  wilt  grant  control 
To  another,  nor  disallow 
For  a  time,  restrain  me  now !  130 


XXVII. 


I  admonish  me  while  I  may, 
Not  to  squander  guilt, 
Since  require  Thou  wilt 

At  my  hand  its  price  one  day! 

What  the  price  is,  who  can  say? 


64  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

i. 

HOW  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 
When  the  long  dark  autumn  evenings  come  : 
And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue  ? 
With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices,  dumb 
In  life's  November  too  ! 

n. 

I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 

O'er  a  great  wise  book,  as  beseemeth  age  ; 
While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross-wind  blows, 

And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page, 
Not  verse  now,  only  prose  !  10 

in. 

Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 

"There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek: 
Now  then,  cr  never,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 
A  mainmast  for  our  ship  !  " 


I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends  ! 

Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 
Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  extends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends.  20 

v. 

The  outside-frame,  like  your  hazel-trees  — 

But  the  inside-archway  widens  fast, 
And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 

And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 
And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 

VI. 

1  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand  : 
Oh  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-lands, 
Laid  to  their  hearts  instead!  30 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  65 


VII. 


Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 
Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge! 

Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 
Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron-forge 

Breaks  solitude  in  vain? 


VIII. 


A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things ; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Thro'  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings!  40 


IX. 


Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella ;  see,  in  the  evening-glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow! 


x. 


On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block.  50 


XI. 


Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain-flowers, 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit 's  begun, 

These  early  November  hours, 


XII. 

That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 

Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 
O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 

And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 
Elf-needled  mat  of  moss,  60 

r 


66  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


XIII. 


By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening  —  nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-coloured  flaky  crew 

Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 


And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 

That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 
Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge, 

Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 
Danced  over  by  the  midge.  70 


xv. 


The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 
Blackish-gray  and  mostly  wet ; 

Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dyke. 
See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 

And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike! 


XVI. 


Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams  —  80 


xvn. 


To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dresser's  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 


XVIII. 


It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 

With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon-wise 
Set  over  the  porch,  Art's  early  wont : 

'T  is  John  in  the  Desert.  I  surmise, 
But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt —  90 


\ 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  67 

XIX. 

Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder,  though, 

For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 
Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 

Dating  —  good  thought  of  our  architect's  — 
Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 


XX. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times ; 

The  place  is  silent  and  aware ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 

But  that  is  its  own  affair.  loo 


XXI. 

My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 

Oh  heart,  my  own,  oh  eyes,  mine  too, 
Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 

With  whom  besides  should  I  dare  pursue 
The  path  gray  heads  abhor? 

XXII. 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them ; 

Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops  — 
Not  they ;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  life's  safe  hem !  no 


XXIII. 

With -me,  youth  led  ...  I  will  speak  now, 

No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 
Reading  by  firelight,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Mutely,  my  heart  knows  how  — 

xxrv. 

When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 

You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme  ; 

And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 

Response  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time, 

Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff.  1 20 


68 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


My  own,  confirm  me  !     If  I  tread 
This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 

To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 
To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side, 

Youth  seems  the  waste  instead? 


XXVI. 


My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct! 

At  first,  't  was  something  our  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do  ;  each  is  sucked 

In  each  now :  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 


130 


XXVII. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new, 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands, 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands? 


XXVIII. 


h  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 
Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 

ou  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 
See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine  ! 


. 


XXIX. 


But  who  could  have  expected  this 
When  we  two  drew  together  first 

Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 
To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 

With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss? 


140 


XXX. 


Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 
Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 

Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 
Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 

And  gather  what  we  let  fall ! 


150 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  69 

XXXI. 

What  did  I  say  ?  —  that  a  small  bird  sings 

All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 
Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 

Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  noon-day  glare 
You  count  the  streaks  and  rings. 


XXXII. 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 

'T  is  better ;  then  the  silence  grows 
To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 

It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 
Its  bosom  does  so  heave.  160 


XXXIII. 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side, 
Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 

And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak, 

Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 


XXXIV. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 

And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 
And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 
And  wonder  at  the  moss.  170 

xxxv. 

Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 

Look  through  the  window's  grated  square : 

Nothing  to  see  !     For  fear  of  plunder, 
The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare, 

As  if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder. 


XXXVI. 

We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 
Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date ; 

Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 
Take  the  path  again  —  but  wait  !  i8r 


70  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


xxxvn-  7WL. 


Oh  moment  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone  ; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright  : 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown  — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite  ! 


XXXVIII. 


We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 

But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well : 
The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 

The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 
Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred.  190 


xxxix. 


Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  ! 


XL. 


Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 

So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her : 
I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between, 

And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 
Friends  —  lovers  that  might  have  been.  200 


For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland  time, 
Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 

Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer-prime, 
But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test ! 

"  Hold  the  last  fast !  "  runs  the  rhyme. 


For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 

When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can  mend  : 
But  a  last  leaf —  fear  to  touch!  210 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


XLIII. 


Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind —  best  chance  of  all ! 
Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 

You  trembled  to  forestall ! 


XLIV. 


Worth  how  well,  those  dark  gray  eyes, 

That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 
That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 

And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 
For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize!  220 


XLV. 


You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 
Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 
His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 


XL  VI. 


But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are, 

And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 
If  two  lives  join,  there  is  oft  a  scar. 

They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third ; 
One  near  one  is  too  far.  230 


XLVII. 


A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast ; 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life  :  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 


XLVIII. 


The  forests  had  done  it ;  there  they  stood ; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play; 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  good, 

Their  work  was  done  —  we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood.  240 


72  ANY  WIFE   TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

XLIX. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does ! 

L. 

Be  hate  that  fruit  or  love  that  fruit, 

It  forwards  the  general  deed  of  man : 
And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 

The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan ; 
Each  living  his  own,  to  boot.  250 

LI. 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat ; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree ; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete, 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me  — 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet! 

LIT. 

And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  firelight,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how!  260 

LIII. 

So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the  more, 

And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain  too ; 

And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 
When  autumn  comes :  which  I  mean  to  do 

One  day,  as  I  said  before. 


/^Vv-«*V 

ANY  WIFE   TO   ANY   HUSBAND. 

'• 

Y  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou  — 


M 


Who  art  all  truth,  and  who  dost  love  me  now 
As  thine  eyes  say,  as  thy  voice  breaks  to  say  — 
Shouldst  love  so  truly,  and  couldst  love  me  still 


73 


10 


ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but  love  its  will, 
Would  death  that  leads  me  from  thee  brook  delay. 


II. 

I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Will  never  let  mine  go,  nor  heart  withstand 

The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its  place. 
When  shall  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee  gone? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find  none? 

Never,  I  know!     Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face. 


Oh,  I  should  fade  —  't  is  willed  so !     Might  I  save, 
Gladly  I  would,  whatever  beauty  gave 

Joy  to  thy  sense,  for  that  was  precious  too. 
It  is  not  to  be  granted.     But  the  soul 
Whence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage  leaves  that  whole; 

Vainly  the  flesh  fades :  soul  makes  all  things  new. 


IV. 

It  would  not  be  because  my  eye  grew  dim 

Thou  couldst  not  find  the  love  there,  thanks  to  Him  ao 

Who  never  is  dishonoured  in  the  spark 
He  gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires,  and  bade 
Remember  whence  it  sprang,  nor  be  afraid 

While  that  burns  on,  tho'  all  the  rest  grow  dark. 


v. 

So,  how  thou  wouldst  be  perfect,  white  and  clean 
Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  demesne 

Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it  by! 
Oh,  three-parts  thro1  the  worst  of  life's  abyss, 
What  plaudits  from  the  next  world  after  this, 

Couldst  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and  gain  the  sky!  30 

VI. 

And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 

That,  disengage  our  hands  and  thou  wilt  sink 

Altho'  thy  love  was  love  in  very  deed? 
I  know  that  nature !  Pass  a  festive  day, 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower  away 

Nor  bid  its  music's  loitering  echo  speed. 


74  ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 


Thou  let'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie  where  it  fell ; 
If  old  things  remain  old  things  all  is  well, 

For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes  man  best : 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play  one  tune,  40 

Or  viewed  me  from  a  window,  not  so  soon 

With  thee  would  such  things  fade  as  with  the  rest. 

VIII. 

I  seem  to  see!     We  meet  and  part ;  't  is  brief; 
The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded  leaf, 

The  very  chair  I  sat  on,  breaks  the  rank ; 
That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall  — 
Three  lines,  my  face  comes  at  so  slight  a  call : 

And  for  all  this,  one  little  hour  to  thank! 

IX. 

But  now,  because  the  hour  thro'  years  was  fixed, 

Because  our  inmost  beings  met  and  mixed,  50 

Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me  —  wilt  thou  dare 
Say  to  thy  soul  and  Who  may  list  beside, 
"  Therefore  she  is  immortally  my  bride ; 

Chance  cannot  change  my  love,  nor  time  impair. 

x. 

"  So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that 's  left, 
I,  a  tired  traveller  of  my  sun  bereft, 

Look  from  my  path  when,  mimicking  the  same, 
The  fire-fly  glimpses  past  me,  come  and  gone? 

—  Where  was  it  till  the  sunset  ?   where  anon 

It  will  be  at  the  sunrise !     What 's  to  blame  ?  "  60 

XI. 

Is  it  so  helpful  to  thee  ?     Canst  thou  take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's  sake, 

Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam  ? 
Is  the  remainder  of  the  way  so  long, 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou  the  strong? 

Watch  out  thy  watch,  let  weak  ones  doze  and  dream. 

XII. 

—  Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces!     "  Is  it  true," 
Thou 'It  ask,  ''some  eyes  are  beautiful  and  new? 

Some  hair,  —  how  can  one  choose  but  grasp  such  wealth? 


ANY   WIFE  TO   ANY  HUSBAND. 


75 


And  if  a  man  would  press  his  lips  to  lips  70 

Fresh  as  the  wilding  hedge-rose-cup  there  slips 
The  dew-drop  out  of,  must  it  be  by  stealth  ? 

XIII. 

"  It  cannot  change  the  love  still  kept  for  Her, 
More  than  if  such  a  picture  I  prefer 

Passing  a  day  with,  to  a  room's  bare  side : 
The  painted  form  takes  nothing  she  possessed, 
Yet,  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at  rest, 

A  man  looks.     Once  more,  what  is  there  to  chide?" 

XIV. 

So  must  I  see,  from  where  I  sit  and  watch, 

My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand  attach  80 

Its  warrant  to  the  very  thefts  from  me  — 
Thy  singleness  of  soul  that  made  me  proud, 
Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud, 

Thy  man's-truth  I  was  bold  to  bid  God  see! 


Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt!     Give  all  thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces  —  disentranced, 

(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no  more  : 
Re-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old  mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the  print, 

Image  and  superscription  once  they  bore!  90 

XVI. 

Re-coin  thyself  and  give  it  them  to  spend, — 
It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end, 

Since  mine  thou  wast,  mine  art,  and  mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless  :  sealing  up  the  sum 
Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  must  come 

Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep  for  thee! 

XVII. 

Only,  why  should  it  be  with  stain  at  all  ? 
Why  must  I,  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal, 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow? 

Why  need  the  other  women  know  so  much,  loo 

And  talk  together,  <•'  Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now!  " 


76 


IN  A    YEAR. 

xvm. 

Might  I  die  last  and  show  thee!     Should  I  find 
Such  hardship  in  the  few  years  left  behind, 

If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp,  and  go 
Into  thy  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and  sit, 
Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of  it 

The  better  that  they  are  so  blank,  I  know! 


Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn  o'er 

Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more  and  more  no 

By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to  learn  at  first ; 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the  pause 
'Neath  the  low  door-way's  lintel.     That  were  cause 

For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst,  if  I  durst! 

XX. 

And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us  two : 
What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst  not  do, 

Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with  one  stride? 
I  '11  say  then,  here 's  a  trial  and  a  task  ; 
Is  it  to  bear?  —  if  easy,  I  '11  not  ask  : 

Tho'  love  fail,  I  can  trust  on  in  thy  pride.  120 


Pride?  —  when  those  eyes  forestall  the  life  behind 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through !  —  when  I  find, 

Now  that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all  of  thee! 
What  did  I  fear?     Thy  love  shall  hold  me  fast 
Until  the  little  minute's  sleep  is  past 

And  I  wake  saved.  —  And  yet  it  will  not  be! 


IN   A  YEAR, 
i. 

NEVER  any  more, 
While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive : 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 
Single  still. 


IN  A    YEAR.  77 

II. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done,  10 

Vexed  him?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head? 
Strange !  that  very  way 

Love  begun : 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

in. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sung, 

—  Sweetly  too.  20 

If  I  spoke  a' word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  colour  sprung, 

Then  he  heard. 

rv. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  but  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet :  30 

I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 


«  Speak,  I  love  thee  best!  " 

He  exclaimed : 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell!" 

I  confessed : 
"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed. 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine!"  4° 

VI. 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth?  . 

Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone? 


78  ftr  A  YEAR. 

I  had  wealth  and  ease, 
Beauty,  youth  : 

Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 
I  gave  these. 

VII. 


That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just,  50 
And  the  passion  I  had  raised, 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange? 

VIII. 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

—  Paid  my  debt!  60 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till  all  gone, 

He  should  smile  "  She  never  seemed 
Mine  before. 


IX. 

«  What,  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men!" 

He  should  smile : 
"  Dying  for  my  sake  — 

White  and  pink!  70 

Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ?  " 

x. 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief, 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure!     How  perplexed 

Grows  belief! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart : 
Crumble  it.  and  what  comes  next? 

Is  it  God?  80 


SONG  FROM  "JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE."  79 

SONG  FROM  "JAMES   LEE'S  WIFE." 
I. 

OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth,       . 
This  autumn  morning!     How  he  sets  his  bones 
To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth  : 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 
The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 


n. 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true ; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you.  IO 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above ! 


A  WOMAN'S   LAST  WORD. 


LET  'S  contend  no  more,  Love, 
Strive  nor  weep : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 
—  Only  sleep ! 

II. 

What  so  wild  as  words  are? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough! 


ill-  —-T— 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak!  IO 

Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek. 


8o  A    WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 


IV. 


What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is, 

Shun  the  tree  — 


Where  the  apple  reddens, 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I.  2O 


VI. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 
With  a  charm ! 

Be  a  man  and  fold  me 
With  thine  arm! 


Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought  — 

VIII. 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands,  30 

Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 

IX. 

That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight : 

x. 

—  Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me!) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee.  40 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT.  82 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT. 
I. 

'~P*HE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
_l     And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

II. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ; 

Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match,  ;  3 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  thro'  its  joys  and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each! 


PARTING   AT   MORNING. 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim : 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


WOMEN   AND   ROSES. 

i. 

I  DREAM  of  a  red-rose  tree. 
And  which  of  its  roses  three 
Is  the  dearest  rose  to  me? 

n. 

Round  and  round,  like  a  dance  of  snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians,  go 
Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages. 
Sculptured  in  stone,  on  the  poet's  pages. 
Then  follow  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 


82  WOMEN  AND  ROSES. 

Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude  of  maidens,  lo 

Beauties  yet  unborn.     And  all,  to  one  cadence, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 


Dear  rose,  thy  term  is  reached, 
Thy  leaf  hangs  loose  and  bleached : 
Bees  pass  it  unimpeached. 


Stay  then,  stoop,  since  I  cannot  climb, 

You,  great  shapes  of  the  antique  time, 

How  shall  I  fix  you,  fire  you,  freeze  you, 

Break  my  heart  at  your  feet  to  please  you  ? 

Oh,  to  possess  and  be  possessed!  20 

Hearts  that  beat  'neath  each  pallid  breast! 

Once  but  of  love,  the  poesy,  the  passion, 

Drink  but  once  and  die!  —  In  vain,  the  same  fashion, 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

v. 

D^ar  rose,  thy  joy's  undimmed  : 

Tny  cup  is  ruby-rimmed, 

Thy  cup's  heart  nectar-brimmed. 


Deep,  as  drops  from  a  statue's  plinth 

The  bee  sucked  in  by  the  hyacinth, 

So  will  I  bury  me  while  burning,  30 

Quench  like  him  at  a  plunge  my  yearning, 

Eyes  in  your  eyes,  lips  on  your  lips! 

Fold  me  fast  where  the  cincture  slips, 

Prison  all  my  soul  in  eternities  of  pleasure, 

Girdle  me  for  once!     But  no  —  the  old  measure, 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

VII. 

Dear  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Thy  bud  's  the  babe  unborn : 
First  streak  of  a  new  morn. 

VIII. 

Wings,  lend  wings  for  the  cold,  the  dear!  40 

What  is  far  conquers  what  is  near. 


MISCONCEPTIONS.  83 

Roses  will  bloom  nor  want  beholders, 

Sprung  from  the  dust  where  our  flesh  moulders, 

What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's  change? 

A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 

I  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  Artist  that  began  her, 

Shaped  her  to  his  mind !  —  Alas!  in  like  manner 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 


is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 
L      Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 
Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 
Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 

Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  to, — 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to! 

II. 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on,  IO 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 

Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on,  — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on! 


A  PRETTY   WOMAN. 
I. 


fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers, 
And  the  blue  eye 
Dear  and  dewy, 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers! 


To  think  men  cannot  take  you,  Sweet, 

And  enfold  you, 

Ay,  and  hold  you, 
And  so  keep  you  what  they  make  you,  Sweet! 


84  A  PRETTY  WOMAN. 

in. 

You  like  us  for  a  glance,  you  know  — 

For  a  word's  sake 

Or  a  sword's  sake  : 
All 's  the  same,  whate'er  the  chance,  you  know. 

IV. 

And  in  turn  we  make  you  ours,  we  say  -r- 

You  and  youth  too, 

Eyes  and  mouth  too, 
All  the  face  composed  of  flowers,  we  say. 

v. 

All  ?s  our  own,  to  make  the  most  of,  Sweet  — 

Sing  and  say  for, 

Watch  and  pray  for, 
Keep  a  secret  or  go  boast  of,  Sweet! 


But  for  loving,  why,  you  would  not,  Sweet, 

Tho1  we  prayed  you, 

Paid  you,  brayed  you 
In  a  mortar —  for  you  could  not,  Sweet! 

VII. 

So,  we  leave  the  sweet  face  fondly  there, 

Be  its  beauty 

Its  sole  duty! 
Let  all  hope  of  grace  beyond,  lie  there! 

VIII. 

And  while  the  face  lies  quiet  there, 

Who  shall  wonder 

That  I  ponder 
A  conclusion?     I  will  try  it  there. 


As,  —  why  must  one,  for  the  love  foregone 

Scout  mere  liking? 

Thunder-striking 
Earth,  —  the  heaven,  we  looked  above  for,  gone! 


A  PRETTY  WOMAN".  85 

x. 

Why,  with  beauty,  needs  there  money  be, 

Love  with  liking? 

Crush  the  fly-king 
In  his  gauze,  because  no  honey-bee?  40 

XI. 

May  not  liking  be  so  simple-sweet, 

If  love  grew  there 

'T  would  undo  there 
All  that  breaks  the  cheek  to  dimples  sweet? 

XII. 

Is  the  creature  too  imperfect,  say? 

Would  you  mend  it 

And  so  end  it? 
Since  not  all  addition  perfects  aye! 

xm. 

Or  is  it  of  its  kind,  perhaps, 

Just  perfection —  jo 

Whence,  rejection 
Of  a  grace  not  to  its  mind,  perhaps  ? 

XIV. 

Shall  we  burn  up,  tread  that  face  at  once 

Into  tinder, 

And  so  hinder 
Sparks  from  kindling  all  the  place  at  once? 

xv. 

Or  else  kiss  away  one's  soul  on  her? 

Your  love-fancies ! 

—  A  sick  man  sees 
Truer,  when  his  hot  eyes  roll  on  her!  60 

XVI. 

Thus  the  craftsman  thinks  to  grace  the  rose, — 

Plucks  a  mould-flower 

For  his  gold  flower, 
Uses  fine  things  that  efface  the  rose. 


86  A  LIGHT  WOMAN'. 


xvn. 


Rosy  rubies  make  its  cup  more  rose, 

Precious  metals 

Ape  the  petals,  — 
Last,  some  old  king  locks  it  up,  morose ! 


Then  how  grace  a  rose?     I  know  a  way  ! 

Leave  it,  rather.  70 

Must  you  gather? 
Smell,  kiss,  wear  it  —  at  last,  throw  away. 


A   LIGHT  WOMAN. 


SO  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 
Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us  three?  — 
My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me? 

n. 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose. 

And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improvement  yet, 

When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her  hunting-noose 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 


When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 

A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just  him  10 

To  her  nine-and-ninety  other  spoils, 

The  hundredth  for  a  whim! 


And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 
How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said, 

An  eagle  1s  the  game  her  pride  prefers, 
Tho'  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead  ! 


So,  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest  need, 


A  LIGHT  WOMAN.  8/ 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake, 

And  gave  me  herself  indeed !  20 


VI. 


The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the  world, 
The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 

—  You  look  away  and  your  lip  is  curled  ? 
Patience,  a  moment's  space ! 


VII. 


For  see,  my  friend  goes  shaking  and  white, 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk : 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to  night, 

Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 


VIII. 


And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief: 

"Tho'  I  love  her  —  that,  he  comprehends —  30 

One  should  master  one's  passions,  (love,  in  chief) 

And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends  !  " 


And  she,  —  she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 
As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall ; 

Just  a  touch  to  try,  and  off  it  came ; 
'T  is  mine,  —  can  I  let  it  fall  ? 


With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that 's  the  worst ! 

Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the  case  assist  ? 
'T  was  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies'  thirst 

When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist.  40 

XI. 

And  I,  —  what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see ; 

What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess : 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me  ? 

No  hero,  I  confess. 

XII. 

'T  is  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 

And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own : 
Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning  coals 

He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone  ! 


88  LOVE  IN  A  LIFE. 


XIII. 


One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  the  truth  ; 

That  the  woman  was  light  is  very  true :  50 

But  suppose  she  says,  —  Never  mind  that  youth 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you? 


XIV. 


Well,  any  how,  here  the  story  stays, 
So  far  at  least  as  I  understand  ; 

And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of  plays, 
Here 's  a  subject  made  to  your  hand  ! 


LOVE  IN  A  LIFE. 

I. 

ROOM  after  room, 
I  hunt  the  house  through 
We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her— 
Next  time,  herself !  —  not  the  trouble  behind  her 
Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume! 
As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice-wreath  blossomed  anew ; 
Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

n. 

Yet  the  day  wears, 

And  door  succeeds  door ;  10 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune  — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 

Still  the  same  chance!  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 

Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest,  —  who  cares  ? 

But  't  is  twilight,  you  see,  —  with  such  suites  to  explore, 

Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune! 


LIFE  IN  A  LOVE. 

T7  SCAPE  me  ? 

l\    Never — 

Beloved! 

While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 


THE  LABORATORY. 


89 


So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 

Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear : 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed! 

Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed.  10 

But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again, — 

So  the  chace  takes  up  one's  life,  that 's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  farthest  bound 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  goes  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self-same  mark, 
I  shape  me —  20 

Ever 
Removed! 


THE  LABORATORY. 

ANCIEN  REGIME. 

I. 

NOW  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly, 
May  gaze  thro'  these  faint  smokes  curling  whitely, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil's-smithy  — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee  ? 

n. 

He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I  know 
Where  they  are,  what  they  do  :  they  believe  my  tears  flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me  fled  to  the  drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God  in,  for  them!  —  I  am  here. 

in. 

Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up  thy  paste, 

Pound  at  thy  powder, —  I  am  not  in  haste!  10 

Better  sit  thus  and  observe  thy  strange  things, 

Than  go  where  men  wait  me,  and  dance  at  the  King's. 

IV. 

That  in  the  mortar  —  you  call  it  a  gum  ? 

Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold  oozings  come! 


THE  LABORATORY. 

And  yonder  soft  phial,  the  exquisite  blue, 
Sure  to  taste  sweetly,  —  is  that  poison  too? 

v. 

Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy  treasures, 

What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleasures ! 

To  carry  pure  death  in  an  earring,  a  casket, 

A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  basket!  20 

VI. 

Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge  to  give 

And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty  minutes  to  live! 

But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise,  with  her  head 

And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her  hands,  should  drop  dead! 

VII. 

Quick  —  is  it  finished?  The  colour's  too  grim! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  phial's,  enticing  and  dim? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn  it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and  prefer! 

VIII. 

What  a  drop!     She's  not  little,  no  minion  like  me! 

That 's  why  she  ensnared  him  :  this  never  will  free  30 

The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, —  say,  "No!" 

To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come-and-go. 

IX. 

For  only  last  night,  as  they  whispered,  I  brought 
My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that  I  thought 
Could  I  keep  them  one  half  minute  fixed,  she  would  fall 
Shrivelled ;  she  fell  not ;  yet  this  does  it  all! 


Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain ; 

Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  remain :  * 

Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace  — 

He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying  face!  40 

XI. 

Is  it  done  ?     Take  my  mask  off !     Nay,  be  not  morose ; 
It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing  it  close : 
The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  fortune's  fee! 
If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt  me? 


GOLD  HAIR. 


Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold  to  your  fill, 
You  may  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my  mouth  if  you  will! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror  it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it  —  next  moment  I  dance  at  the  King's ' 


GOLD   HAIR: 

A  STORY  OF  PORNIC. 


OH,  the  beautiful  girl,  too  white, 
Who  lived  at  Pornic  down  by  the  sea, 
Just  where  the  sea  and  the  Loire  unite! 

And  a  boasted  name  in  Brittany 
She  bore,  which  I  will  not  write. 

II. 

Too  white,  for  the  flower  of  life  is  red ; 

Her  flesh  was  the  soft  seraphic  screen 
Of  a  soul  that  is  meant  (her  parents  said) 
.     To  just  see  earth,  and  hardly  be  seen, 
And  blossom  in  heaven  instead.  1C 

in. 

Yet  earth  saw  one  thing,  one  how  fair! 

One  grace  that  grew  to  its  full  on  earth  : 
Smiles  might  be  sparse  on  her  cheek  so  spare 

And  her  waist  want  half  a  girdle's  girth, 
But  she  had  her  great  gold  hair. 


Hair,  such  a  wonder  of  flix  and  floss, 

Freshness  and  fragrance  —  floods  of  it,  too  I 

Gold,  did  I  say  ?     Nay,  gold's  mere  dross : 
Here,  Life  smiled,  ;'  Think  what  I  meant  to  do  ! " 

And  Love  sighed,  "  Fancy  my  loss  ! "  20 

v. 

So,  when  she  died,  it  was  scarce  more  strange 

Than  that,  when  delicate  evening  dies, 
And  you  follow  its  spent  sun's  pallid  range, 


GOLD  HAIR. 

There's  a  shoot  of  colour  startles  the  skies 
With  sudden,  violent  change,  — 


VI. 


That,  while  the  breath  was  nearly  to  seek, 

As  they  put  the  little  cross  to  her  lips. 
She  changed ;  a  spot  came  out  on  her  cheek, 

A  spark  from  her  eye  in  mid-eclipse, 
And  she  broke  forth,  '•  I  must  speak  ! "  30 


"  Not  my  hair  !  "  made  the  girl  her  moan  — 

"  All  the  rest  is  gone  or  to  go ; 
But  the  last,  last  grace,  my  all,  my  own, 

Let  it  stay  in  the  grave,  that  the  ghosts  may  know! 
Leave  my  poor  gold  hair  alone!  " 

VIII. 

The  passion  thus  vented,  dead  lay  she : 

Her  parents  sobbed  their  worst  on  that, 
All  friends  joined  in,  nor  observed  degree : 

For  indeed  the  hair  was  to  wonder  at, 
As  it  spread  —  not  flowing  free,  4C 

IX. 

But  curled  around  her  brow,  like  a  crown, 

And  coiled  beside  her  cheeks,  like  a  cap, 
And  calmed  about  her  neck  —  ay,  down 

To  her  breasc,  pressed  flat,  without  a  gap 
I'  the  gold,  it  reached  her  gown. 

x. 

All  kissed  that  face,  like  a  silver  wedge 

Mid  the  yellow  wealth,  nor  disturbed  its  hair: 

E'en  the  priest  allowed  death's  urivilege, 
As  he  planted  the  crucifix  with  care 

On  her  breast,  'twixt  edge  and  edge.  50 

XI. 

And  thus  was  she  buried,  inviolate 

Of  body  and  soul,  in  the  very  space 
By  the  altar ;  keeping  saintly  state 

In  Pornic  church,  for  her  pride  of  race, 
Pure  life  and  piteous  fate. 


GOLD  HAIR.. 


93 


And  in  after-time  would  your  fresh  tear  fall, 

Though  your  mouth  might  twitch  with  a  dubious  smile, 

As  they  told  you  of  gold,  both  robe  and  pall, 
How  she  prayed  them  leave  it  alone  awhile. 

So  it  never  was  touched  at  all.  60 


XIII. 


Years  flew ;  this  legend  grew  at  last 
The  life  of  the  lady ;  all  she  had  done, 

All  been,  in  the  memories  fading  fast 
Of  lover  and  friend,  was  summed  in  one 

Sentence  survivors  passed  :  — 


XIV. 


To  wit,  she  was  meant  for  heaven,  not  earth ; 

Had  turned  an  angel  before  the  time : 
Yet,  since  she  was  mortal,  in  such  dearth 

Of  frailty,  all  you  could  count  a  crime 
Was  —  she  knew  her  gold  hair's  worth.  70 


xv. 


At  little  pleasant  Pornic  church, 

It  chanced,  the  pavement  wanted  repair, 

Was  taken  to  pieces :  left  in  the  lurch, 
A  certain  sacred  space  lay  bare, 

And  the  boys  began  research. 


XVI. 


T  was  the  space  where  our  sires  would  lay  a  saint, 

A  benefactor,  —  a  bishop,  suppose, 
A  baron  with  armour-adornments  quaint, 

Dame  with  chased  ring  and  jewelled  rose, 
Things  sanctity  saves  from  taint ;  80 


XVII. 


So  we  come  to  find  them  in  after-days 

When  the  corpse  is  presumed  to  have  done  with  gauds 
Of  use  to  the  living,  in  many  ways : 

For  the  boys  get  pelf,  and  the  town  applauds, 
And  the  church  deserves  the  praise. 


94 


GOLD  HAIR. 


XVIII. 


They  grubbed  with  a  will :  and  at  length  —  O  cor 

Httmanum,  pectora  cceca,  and  the  rest !  — 
They  found  —  no  gaud  they  were  prying  for, 

No  ring,  no  rose,  but  —  who  would  have  guessed  ?  — 
A  double  Louis-d'or!      •  90 


XIX. 


Here  was  a  case  for  the  priest :  he  heard, 
Marked,  inwardly  digested,  laid 

Finger  on  nose,  smiled,  "  There  's  a  bird 
Chirps  in  my  ear :  "  then,  "  Bring  a  spade, 

Dig  deeper!  " —  he  gave  the  word. 


xx. 


And  lo,  when  they  came  to  the  coffin-lid, 

Or  rotten  planks  which  composed  it  once, 
Why,  there  lay  the  girl's  skull  wedged  amid 

A  mint  of  money,  it  served  for  the  nonce 
To  hold  in  its  hair-heaps  hid!  loo 


XXI. 


Hid  there?     Why?     Could  the  girl  be  wont 
(She  the  stainless  soul)  to  treasure  up 

Money,  earth's  trash  and  heaven's  affront? 
Had  a  spider  found  out  the  communion-cup, 

Was  a  toad  in  the  christening-font  ? 


XXII. 


Truth  is  truth  :  too  true  it  was. 

Gold!     She  hoarded  and  hugged  it  first, 
Longed  for  it,  leaned  o'er  it,  loved  it  —  alas  — 

Till  the  humour  grew  to  a  head  and  burst, 
And  she  cried,  at  the  final  pass,  —  no 


XXIII. 


"Talk  not  of  God,  my  heart  is  stone! 

Nor  lover  nor  friend —  be  gold  for  both! 
Gold  I  lack ;  and,  my  all,  my  own, 

It  shall  hide  in  my  hair.     I  scarce  die  loth 
If  they  let  my  hair  alone  !  " 


GOLD  HAIR.  95 


XXIV. 


Louis-a'or,   some  six  times  five, 

And  duly  double,  every  piece. 
Now,  do  you  see  ?     With  the  priest  to  shrive, 

With  parents  preventing  her  soul's  release 
By  kisses  that  kept  alive,  —  120 


XXV. 


With  heaven's  gold  gates  about  to  ope, 

With  friends'  praise,  gold-like,  lingering  still, 

An  instinct  had  bidden  the  girl's  hand  grope 

For  gold,  the  true  sort  —  "  Gold  in  heaven,  if  you  will ; 

But  I  keep  earth's  too,  I  hope." 


XXVI. 


Enough !     The  priest  took  the  grave's  grim  yield '. 

The  parents;  they  eyed  that  price  of  sin 
As  if  thirty  pieces  lay  revealed 

On  the  place  to  bury  strangers  in, 
The  hideous  Potter's  Field.  130 


XXVII. 


But  the  priest  bethought  him  :  "  '  Milk  that 's  spilt' 
—  You  know  the  adage!     Watch  and  pray  ! 

Saints  tumble  to  earth  with  so  slight  a  tilt ! 
It  would  build  a  new  altar ;  that,  we  may  ! " 

And  the  altar  therewith  was  built. 


XXVIII. 


Why  I  deliver  this  horrible  verse? 

As  the  text  of  a  sermon,  which  now  I  preach : 
Evil  or  good  may  be  better  or  worse 

In  the  human  heart,  but  the  mixture  of  each 
Is  a  marvel  and  a  curse.  140 


XXIX. 


The  candid  incline  to  surmise  of  late 

That  the  Christian  faith  proves  false,  I  find ; 

For  our  Essays-and-Reviews'  debate 
Begins  to  tell  on  the  public  mind, 

And  Colenso's  words  have  weight : 


96  THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST, 


XXX. 


I  still,  to  suppose  it  true,  for  my  part, 

See  reasons  and  reasons ;  this,  to  begin : 
'T  is  the  faith  that  launched  point-blank  her  dart 

At  the  head  of  a  lie  —  taught  Original  Sin, 
The  Corruption  of  Man's  Heart.  150 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

r~T*HERE  'S  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows  well, 

J_      And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 

Asked,  "  Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?"  * 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand  ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased  — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand  —  re 

As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "  The  Great  Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  self-same  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay. 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back —  "  Who  is  she?  " 

—  "A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day," 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure  —  20 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree? 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure  — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man,  — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 


THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST. 


97 


He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes : 

The  Past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began.  30 

Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held,  that  self-same  night, 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three  parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Thro1  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square)  40 

Turned,  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude, 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued  — 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor  — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word? 

If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think,  50 

Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Thro'  a  certain  window  facing  the  East, 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler.  60 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 


98  THE  STATUE  AND    THE  BUST. 

"  Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride : 
"  Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied  — 

"  If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  paradise! 

"  I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

u  'T  is  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 

And  I  save  my  soul  —  but  not  to-morrow  " — 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) 
"  My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state  : 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"  Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know ; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing,  and  sleep : 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "  Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 

And  smiled  "  'T  was  a  very  funeral. 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours,  — 
A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall! 

"What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers  ? " 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "  Too  much  favour  for  me  so  mean! 


THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST.  99 

"  But,  alas!  my  lady  leaves  the  South  ;  loo 

Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth  : 

"  Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "  A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring : 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here! " 

And  then  to  himself —  "  Which  night  shall  bring 

Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool  —  no 

Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king! 

"  Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"  I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 
To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 
With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance  : 

" For  I  ride —  what  should  I  do  but  ride? 

And,  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window  —  well  betide  !  "  120 

So  said,  so  done  :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore,  130 

With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth  : 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 


100  THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST. 

Meantime  they  could  profit,  in  winter's  dearth, 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose  : 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth : 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simple  policy ;  better  wait :  140 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate, 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate! 

And  she  —  she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook :    - 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 

And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at  night  to  scheme 

Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun.  150 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years  ;  gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream ; 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above : 
But. who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove  ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, —  160 

And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass  — 
"  Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"  Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"  Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"  Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 

Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair,  170 

And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 


THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST.  IQI 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square ! 

"And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  'What  matters  it  at  the  end? 

I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 

Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.'  1 80 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm  — 

"  Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine, 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine  — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space,  190 

As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of'sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face  — 

Eyeing  ever,  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  it's  breathless  stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by  —  ) 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence,  "  Youth  —  my  dream  escapes  ! 
Will  its  record  stay  ?  "  and  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes  — 

"  Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man  2oc 

Ere  his  body  find    the  grave  that  gapes  ? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"  In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft : 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 


102  THE  STATUE  AND    THE  BUST. 

"While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay  brave  in  bronze  — 

Admire  and  say, '  When  he  was  alive 

How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once  ! '  210 

'•'  And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  the  while,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So !     While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know,  220 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss  — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  thro1  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "  But  delay  was  best, 

For  their  end  was  a  crime.11  —  Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test. 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself  230 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  momenfs  view  ! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf  ? 
Where  a  button  goes,  't  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham  : 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit. 

When  your  table  ?s  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it,  240 


LOVE  AMONG   THE  RUINS.  IO3 

If  you  choose  to  play  !  —  is  my  principle.    rf. 
•   ?'i-'/'j'  Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 

"For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will.' 


The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost  X,  ' 


Is,  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 

Tho'  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 

You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 

How  strive  you  ?     De  te,fabulal  .  250 


LOVE  AMONG  THE   RUINS. 


WHERE  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiles, 
Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  thro1  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop  — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since  IO 

Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

n. 

Now,  —  the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires  20 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed, 

Twelve  abreast. 


104 


LOVE  AMONG   THE  RUINS. 


And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone  —  30 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 


Now,  —  the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored,  40 

While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Thro'  the  chinks  — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 


And  I  know  —  while  thus  the  quiet-coloured  eve 

Smiles  to  leave  50 

To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 

Melt  away  — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless,  dumb 

Till  I  come.  60 


But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 
Far  and  wide, 


TIME'S  REVENGES.  IO5 

All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades1 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts,  —  and  then, 

All  the  men! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face,  70 

Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 


In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
A.nd  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
ifet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force  — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns  ! 

Earth's  returns  80 

For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest! 

Love  is  best. 


TIME'S  REVENGES. 

T  'VE  a  Friend,  over  the  sea ; 

J.  I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 

It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write ; 

They  find  such  favour  in  his  sight 

That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 

Because  you  don't  admire  my  books. 

He  does  himself  though,  —  and  if  some  vein 

Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy  brain, 

To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 

Round  should  I  just  turn  quietly, 

Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 

Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign  land 

To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place, 

And  make  my  broth  and  wash  my  face 

And  light  my  fire  and,  all  the  while, 

Bear  with  his  old  good-humoured  smile 

That  I  told  him  "  Better  have  kept  away 

Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and  day, 

With,  worse  than  fever  throbs  and  shoots, 


IO6  TIME'S  REVENGES. 

The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots.11  20 

I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do, 
As  that  Saint  Paul's  is  striking  two. 
And  I  think  I  rather  .  .  .  woe  is  me! 

—  Yes,  rather  would  see  him  than  not  see 
If  lifting  a  hand  could  seat  him  there 
Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 
To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 
And  I  can  neither  think  nor  read 

Nor  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 

The  pen  ;  this  garret 's  freezing  cold!  30 

And  I  've  a  Lady  —  there  he  wakes, 

The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 

Within  m  ,at  her  name,  to  pray 

Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 

Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 

Upthrust  and  outward-borne, 

So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 

Of  passion  whi~h  I  needs  must  be! 

Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies  quaint 

And  my  style  infirm  and  its  figures  faint,  40 

All  the  critics  say,  and  more  blame  yet, 

And  not  ^ne  angry  word  you  get. 

But,  please  you.  wonder  I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 

Rather  than  trample  under  mine 

The  laurels  of  the  Florentine. 

And  you  shall  see  how  the  devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends! 

I  t-ell  you.  I  stride  up  and  down 

This  garret,  crowned  with  love's  best  crown,  50 

And  feasted  with  love's  perfect  feast, 

To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 

Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 

Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 

—  So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 

With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 

The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 

Of  shadow  round  her  mouth  ;  and  she 

—  I  '11  tell  you,  —  calmly  would  decree  60 
That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 

If  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

ji 

There  may  be  heaven  ;  there  must  be  hell ; 
Meantime,  there  is  our  earth  here  —  well! 


WARING. 

WARING. 
I. 


WHAT 'S  become  of  Waring 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip, 
Chose  land-travel  or  seafaring, 
Boots  and  chest  or  staff  and  scrip, 
Rather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town? 

n. 

Who  'd  have  guessed  it  from  his  lip 

Or  his  brow's  accustomed  bearing, 

On  the  night  he  thus  took  ship 

Or  started  landward  ?  —  little  caring  IO 

For  us,  it  seems,  who  supped  together 

(Friends  of  his  too,  I  remember) 

And  walked  home  thro1  the  merry  weather, 

The  snowiest  in  all  December. 

I  left  his  arm  that  night  myself 

For  what's-his-name's,  the  new  prose-poet 

Who  wrote  the  book  there  on  the  shelf — 

How,  forsooth,  was  I  to  know  it 

If  Waring  meant  to  glide  away 

Like  a  ghost  at  break  of  day?  20 

Never  looked  he  half  so  gay! 

in. 

He  was  prouder  than  the  devil : 

How  he  must  have  cursed  our  revel! 

Ay  and  many  other  meetings, 

Indoor  visits,  outdoor  greetings, 

As  up  and  down  he  paced  this  London, 

With  no  work  done,  but  great  works  undone, 

Where  scarce  twenty  knew  his  name. 

Why  not,  then,  have  earlier  spoken, 

Written,  bustled  ?     Who  's  to  blame  30 

If  your  silence  kept  unbroken? 

'•  True,  but  there  were  sundry  jottings. 

Stray-leaves,  fragments,  blurrs  and  blottings, 

Certain  first  steps  were  achieved 

Already  which" —  (is  that  your  meaning?) 

"  Had  well  borne  out  whoe'er  believed 


108  WARING. 


In  more  to  come!  "     But  who  goes  gleaning 
Hedge-side  chance-blades,  while  full-sheaved 
Stand  cornfields  by  him?     Pride,  o'enveening 
Pride  alone,  puts  forth  such  claims  40 

O'er  the  day's  distinguished  names. 


Meantime,  how  much  I  loved  him, 

I  find  out  now  I  've  lost  him. 

I  who  cared  not  if  I  moved  him, 

Who  could  so  carelessly  accost  him, 

Henceforth  never  shall  get  free 

Of  his  ghostly  company, 

His  eyes  that  just  a  little  wink 

As  deep  I  go  into  the  merit 

Of  this  and  that  distinguished  spirit  —  50 

His  cheeks'  raised  colour,  soon  to  sink, 

As  long  I  dwell  on  some  stupendous 

And  tremendous  (Heaven  defend  us!) 

Monstr-infornv-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's  latest  piece  of  graphic. 

Nay,  my  very  wrist  grows  warm 

With  his  dragging  weight  of  arm. 

E'en  so,  swimmingly  appears, 

Thro'  one's  after-supper  musings,  60 

Some  lost  lady  of  old  years 

With  her  beauteous  vain  endeavour 

And  goodness  unrepaid  as  ever  ; 

The  face,  accustomed  to  refusings, 

We.  puppies  that  we  were  .   .  .  Oh  never 

Surely,  nice  of  conscience,  scrupled 

Being  aught  like  false,  forsooth,  to  ? 

Telling  aught  but  honest  truth  to? 

What  a  sin,  had  we  centupled 

Its  possessors  grace  and  sweetness!  70 

No!  she  heard  in  its  completeness 

Truth,  for  truth  's  a  weighty  matter 

And  truth,  at  issue,  we  can't  flatter  ! 

Well,  't  is  done  with  ;  she  's  exempt 

From  damning  us  thro'  such  a  sally  ; 

And  so  she  glides,  as  down  a  valley, 

Taking  up  with  her  contempt, 

Past  our  reach  ;  and  in.  the  flowers 

Shut  her  unregarded  hours. 

v. 

Oh,  could  I  have  him  back  once  more,  3o 

This  Waring,  but  one  half-day  more! 


WARING. 

Back,  with  the  quiet  face  of  yore, 

So  hungry  for  acknowledgment 

Like  mine!     I  'd  fool  him  to  his  bent. 

Feed,  should  not  he,  to  heart's  content? 

I  'd  say,  "  To  only  have  conceived, 

Planned  your  great  works,  apart  from  progress, 

Surpasses  little  works  achieved!" 

I  'd  lie  so,  I  should  be  believed. 

I  'd  make  such  havoc  of  the  claims  90 

Of  the  day's  distinguished  names 

To  feast  him  with,  as  feasts  an  ogress 

Her  feverish  sharp-toothed  gold-crowned  child ! 

Or  as  one  feasts  a  creature  rarely 

Captured  here,  unreconciled 

To  capture  ;  and  completely  gives 

Its  pettish  humours  license,  barely 

Requiring  that  it  lives. 

VI. 

Ichabod,  Ichabod, 

The  glory  is  departed !  ion 

Travels  Waring  East  away  ? 

Who,  of  knowledge,  by  hearsay, 

Reports  a  man  upstarted 

Somewhere  as  a  god, 

Hordes  grown  European-hearted, 

Millions  of  the  wild  made  tame 

On  a  sudden  at  his  fame  ? 

In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 

Or  who  in  Moscow,  toward  the  Tsar, 

With  the  demurest  of  footfalls  HO 

Over  the  Kremlin's  pavement  bright 

With  serpentine  and  syenite, 

Steps,  with  five  other  Generals 

That  simultaneously  take  snuff, 

For  each  to  have  pretext  enough 

And  kerchiefwise  unfold  his  sash 

Which,  softness'  self,  is  yet  the  stuff 

To  hold  fast  where  a  steel  chain  snaps, 

And  leave  the  grand  white  neck  no  gash? 

Waring  in  Moscow,  to  those  rough  120 

Cold  northern  natures  borne  perhaps, 

Like  the  lambwhite  maiden  dear 

From  the  circle  of  mute  kings 

Unable  to  repress  the  tear, 

Each  as  his  sceptre  down  he  flings, 

To  Dian's  fane  at  Taurica, 

Where  now  a  captive  priestess,  she  alway 


WARING. 

Mingles  her  tender  grave  Hellenic  speech 

With  theirs,  tuned  to  the  hailstone-beaten  beach 

As  pours  some  pigeon,  from  the  myrrhy  lands  130 

Rapt  by  the  whirlblast  to  fierce  Scythian  strands 

Where  breed  the  swallows,  her  melodious  cry 

Amid  their  barbarous  twitter! 

In  Russia?     Never!     Spain  were  fitter! 

Ay,  most  likely  't  is  in  Spain 

That  we  and  Waring  meet  again 

Now,  while  he  turns  down  that  cool  narrow  lane 

Into  the  blackness,  out  of  grave  Madrid 

All  fire  and  shine,  abrupt  as  when  there  's  slid 

Its  stiff  gold  blazing  pall  140 

From  some  black  coffin-lid. 

Or,  best  of  all, 

I  love  to  think 

The  leaving  us  was  just  a  feint ; 

Back  here  to  London  did  he  slink, 

And  now  works  on  without  a  wink 

Of  sleep,  and  we  are  on  the  brink 

Of  something  great  in  fresco-paint : 

Some  garret's  ceiling,  walls  and  floor, 

Up  and  down  and  o'er  and  o'er  150 

He  splashes,  as  none  splashed  before 

Since  great  Caldara  Polidore. 

Or  Music  means  this  land  of  ours 

Some  favour  yet,  to  pity  won 

By  Purcell  from  his  Rosy  Bowers, — 

"  Give  me  my  so-long  promised  son, 

Let  Waring  end  what  I  begun  ! " 

Then  down  he  creeps  and  out  he  steals, 

Only  when  the  night  conceals 

His  face  ;  in  Kent 't  is  cherry-time,  160 

Or  hops  are  picking :  or  at  prime 

Of  Marc*h  he  wanders  as,  too  happy, 

Years  ago  when  he  was  young, 

Some  mild  eve  when  woods  grew  sappy 

And  the  early  moths  had  sprung 

To  life  from  many  a  trembling  sheath 

Woven  the  warm  boughs  beneath  ; 

While  small  birds  said  to  themselves 

What  should  soon  be  actual  song. 

And  young  gnats,  by  tens  and  twelves  170 

Made  as  if  they  were  the  throng 

That  crowd  around  and  carry  aloft 

The  sound  they  have  nursed,  so  sweet  and  pure 

Out  of  a  myriad  noises  soft. 

Into  a  tone  that  can  endure 


WARING.  1 1 1 

Amid  the  noise  of  a  July  noon 

When  all  God's  creatures  crave  their  boon, 

All  at  once,  and  all  in  tune, 

And  get  it,  happy  as  Waring  then, 

Having  first  within  his  ken  180 

What  a  man  might  do  with  men : 

And  far  too  glad,  in  the  even-glow, 

To  mix  with  the  world  he  meant  to  take 

Into  his  hand,  he  told  you,  so  — 

And  out  of  it  his  world  to  make, 

To  contract  and  to  expand 

As  he  shut  or  oped  his  hand. 

Oh  Waring,  what 's  to  really  be? 

A  clear  stage  and  a  crowd  to  see! 

Some  Garrick,  say,  out  shall  not  he  190 

The  heart  of  Hamlet's  mystery  pluck  ? 

Or,  where  most  unclean  beasts  are  rife, 

Some  Junius —  am  I  right? —  shall  tuck 

His  sleeve,  and  forth  with  flaying-knife ! 

Some  Chatterton  shall  have  the  luck 

Of  calling  Rowley  into  life ! 

Someone  shall  somehow  run  a  muck 

With  this  old  world,  for  want  of  strife 

Sound  asleep.     Contrive,  contrive 

To  rouse  us,  Waring!     Who's  alive?  200 

Our  men  scarce  seem  in  earnest  now. 

Distinguished  names  !  but  't  is,  somehow, 

As  if  they  played  at  being  names 

Still  more  distinguished,  like  the  games 

Of  children.     Turn  our  sport  to  earnest 

With  a  visage  of  the  sternest! 

Bring  the  real  times  back,  confessed 

Still  better  than  our  very  best ! 

II. 

I. 

u  WHEN  I  last  saw  Waring  ..." 

(How  all  turned  to  him  who  spoke!  210 

You  saw  Waring  ?     Truth  or  joke? 

In  land-travel  or  seafaring  ?) 

II. 

"  We  were  sailing  by  Triest 
Where  a  day  or  two  we  harboured : 
A  sunset  was  in  the  West, 
When,  looking  over  the  vessel's  side, 


.112  WARING. 

One  of  our  company  espied 

A  sudden  speck  to  larboard. 

And  as  a  sea-duck  flies  and  swims 

At  once,  so  came  the  light  craft  up,  220 

With  its  sole  lateen  sail  that  trims 

And  turns  (the  water  round  its  rims 

Dancing,  as  round  a  sinking  cup) 

And  by  us  like  a  fish  it  curled. 

And  drew  itself  up  close  beside, 

Its  great  sail  on  the  instant  furled, 

And  o'er  its  thwarts  a  shrill  voice  cried, 

(A  neck  as  bronzed  as  a  Lascar's) 

'Buy  wine  of  us,  you  English  Brig? 

Or  fruit,  tobacco  and  cigars  ?  230 

A  pilot  for  you  to  Triest  ? 

Without  one,  look  you  ne'er  so  big, 

They  '11  never  let  you  up  the  bay! 

We  natives  should  know  best.1 

I  turned,  and  '  Just  those  fellows1  way/1 

Our  captain  said,  '  the  'long-shore  thieves 

Are  laughing  at  us  in  their  sleeves.' 

in. 

"  In  truth,  the  boy  leaned  laughing  back ; 

And  one,  half-hidden  by  his  side 

Under  the  furled  sail,  soon  I  spied.  240 

With  great  grass  hat  and  kerchief  black, 

Who  looked  up  with  his  kingly  throat, 

Said  somewhat,  while  the  other  shook 

His  hair  back  from  his  eyes  to  look 

Their  longest  at  us  ;  then  the  boat, 

I  know  not  how,  turned  sharply  round, 

Laying  her  whole  side  on  the  sea 

As  a  leaping  fish  does ;  from  the  lee 

Into  the  weather,  cut  somehow 

Her  sparkling  path  beneath  our  bow,  250 

And  so  went  off,  as  with  a  bound, 

Into  the  rosy  and  golden  half 

O'  the  sky,  to  overtake  the  sun 

And  reach  the  shore,  like  the  sea-calf 

Its  singing  cave ;  yet  I  caught  one 

Glance  ere  away  the  boat  quite  passed, 

And  neither  time  nor  toil  could  mar 

Those  features :  so  I  saw  the  last 

Of  Waring ! "  —  You  ?     Oh,  never  star 

Was  lost  here  but  it  rose  afar!  260 

Look  East  where  whole  new  thousands  are ! 

In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 


HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD. 
HOME   THOUGHTS   FROM   ABROAD. 


OH,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now! 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover  10 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 
That 's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 
And,  tho'  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 


THE   ITALIAN   IN   ENGLAND. 

HPHAT  second  time  they  hunted  me 

JL    From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 
And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 
Her  blood-hounds  thro'  the  country-side, 
Breathed  hot  an  instant  on  my  trace,  — 
I  made,  six  days,  a  hiding-place 
Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 
Where  I  and  Charles,  when  boys,  have  plucked 
The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 

Bright  creeping  thro'  the  moss  they  love  :  10 

—  How  long  it  seems  since  Charles  was  lost! 
Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 
The  country  in  my  very  sight ; 
And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 
The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 
With  signal-fires.     Well,  there  I  lay 
Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 
Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  and  cress, 
Thinking  on  Metternich  our  friend, 
And  Charles's  miserable  end,  2O 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

And  much  beside,  two  days ;  the  third, 

Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 

The  peasants  from  the  village  go 

To  work  among  the  maize  :  you  know, 

With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring 

Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string, 

With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 

And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 

To  keep  the  sun's  heat  from  the  wine ; 

These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line  ;  30 

And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew, 

The  peasants  from  the  village,  too ; 

For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 

Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 

To  help,  I  knew.     When  these  had  passed, 

I  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 

Taking  the  chance  :  she  did  not  start, 

Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 

One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 

And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground.  40 

A  wild  bush  grows  and  hides  my  crypt ; 

She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she  stripped 

A  branch  off,  then  rejoined  the  rest 

With  that ;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast : 

Then  I  drew  breath  ;  they  disappeared : 

It  was  for  Italy  I  feared. 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone  • 

Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts :  on  me 
Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy.  50 

I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,  when  't  was  told  her,  could  not  fail 
Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth ; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray, 
But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 
Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace, 
Our  Italy's  own  attitude 

In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood,  60 

Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm, 
To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm  — 
At  first  sight  of  her  eyes,  I  said, 
"  I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 
They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate 
The  Austrians  over  us  ;  the  State 
Will  give  you  gold  —  oh,  gold  so  much!  — 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND.  \  \  5 

If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 

And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know, 

If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe.  70 

Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and  drink, 

And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink, 

And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 

To  Padua,  which  you  '11  reach  at  night 

Before  the  duomo  shuts  ;  go  in, 

And  wait  till  Tenebrae  begin  ; 

Walk  to  the  third  confessional, 

Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall, 

And  kneeling  whisper,  Whence  comes  peace  ? 

Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease ;  80 

And  if  the  voice  inside  returns, 

From  Christ  and  Freedom',  what  concerns 

The  cause  of  Peace  f  —  for  answer,  slip 

My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip ; 

Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done 

Our  mother  service  —  I,  the  son, 

As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land!  " 

Three  mornings  more,  she  took  her  stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes : 
I  was  no  surer  of  sun-rise  90 

Than  of  her  coming.     We  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She  had  a  lover —  stout  and  tall, 
She  said  —  then  let  her  eyelids  fall, 
"  He  could  do  much  "  —  as  if  some  doubt 
Entered  her  heart,  —  then,  passing  out, 
"  She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 
Had  other  thoughts  ;  herself  she  knew :  " 
And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and  food. 
After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued  100 

Another  path  ;  at  last  arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  me  :  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 
But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 
Upon  her  head  —  "This  faith  was  shown 
To  Italy,  our  mother;  she 
Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee." 
She  followed  down  to  the  sea-shore  ; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more.  HO 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning  —  much  less  wished  for  —  aught 
Beside  the  good  of  Italy. 


1 1 6  THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die! 

I  never  was  in  love  ;  and  since 

Charles  proved  false,  what  shall  now  convince 

My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend? 

However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 

Real  wishes  on  myself —  say,  three  — 

I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be.  120 

I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 

I  felt  his  red  wet  throat  distil 

In  blood  thro'  these  two  hands.     And  next, 

—  Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed  — 
Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part, 
Should  die  slow  of  a  broken  heart 
Under  his  new  employers.     Last 

—  Ah,  there,  what  should  I  wish  ?     For  fast 
Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 

If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length  130 

My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 
They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared! 
My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 

—  Disowned  me  long  ago,  men  say ; 
And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 
To  praise  me  so  —  perhaps  induced 
More  than  one  early  step  of  mine  — 
Are  turning  wise  :  while  some  opine 

"  Freedom  grows  license,"  some  suspect 

"  Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect  140 

They  always  said,  such  premature 

Beginnings  never  could  endure! 

So,  with  a  sullen  "  All 's  for  best," 

The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 

I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 

This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land, 

Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 

And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 

With  the  calm  smile ;  some  little  farm 

She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt :  what  harm  150 

If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench. 

And  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 

Fantastically  in  the  dust. 

Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes  — just 

Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 

And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 

For  each  of  them.     I  'd  talk  this  out, 

And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 

Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 

Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way.  »'6o 

So  much  for  idle  wishing —  how 
it  steals  the  time!     To  business  now. 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  117 

THE   ENGLISHMAN   IN   ITALY. 

PIANO    DI   SORRENTO. 

FORTU,  Fortu,  my  beloved  one,  sit  here  by  my  side, 
On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet  !     I  was  sure,  if  I  tried, 
I  could  make  you  laugh  spite  of  Scirocco.     Now.  open  your  eyes, 
Let  me  keep  you  amused,  till  he  vanish  in  black  from  the  skies, 
With  telling  my  memories  over,  as  you  tell  your  beads ; 
All  the  Plain  saw  me  gather,  I  garland  —  the  flowers  or  the  weeds. 
Time  for  rain  !   for  your  long   hot  dry  Autumn  had  networked  with 

brown 
The  white  skin  of  each  grape  on  the  bunches,  marked  like  a  quail's 

crown, 
Those  creatures  you  make  such  account  of,  whose  heads,  —  speckled 

white 

Over  brown  like  a  great  spider's  back,  as  I  told  you  last  night,  —        10 
Your  mother  bites  off  for  her  supper.     Red-ripe  as  could  be, 
Pomegranates  were  chapping  and  splitting  in  halves  on  the  tree. 
And  betwixt  the  loose  walls  of  great  flintstone,  or  in  the  thick  dust 
On  the  path,  or  straight  out  of  the  rock-side,  wherever  could  thrust 
Some  burnt  sprig  of  bold  hardy  rock-flower  its  yellow  face  up, 
For  the  prize  were  great  butterflies  fighting,  some  five  for  one  cup. 
So,  I  guessed,  ere  I  got  up  this  morning,  what  change  was  in  store, 
By  the  quick  rustle-down  of  the  quail-nets  which  woke  me  before 
I  could  open  my  shutter,  made  fast  with  a  bough  and  a  stone, 
And    look    thro1    the    twisted   dead   vine-twigs,  sole    lattice    that 's 

known.  20 

Quick  and  sharp  rang  the   rings   down  the  net-poles,  while,  busy 

beneath, 

Your  priest  and  his  brother  tugged  at  them,  the  rain  in  their  teeth. 
And  out  upon  all  the  flat  house-roofs,  where  split  figs  lay  drying, 
The  girls  took  the  frails  under  cover:  nor  use  seemed  in  trying 
To  get  out  the  boats  and  go  fishing,  for,  under  the  cliff. 
Fierce  the  black  water  frothed  o'er  the  blind-rock.     No  seeing  our  skiff 
Arrive  about  noon  from  Amalfi!  —  our  fisher  arrive, 
And  pitch  down  his  basket  before  us,  all  trembling  alive 
With   pink  and  gray  jellies,    your  sea-fruit ;  you  touch  the   strange 

lumps, 

And  mouths  gape  there,  eyes  open,  all  manner  of  horns  and  of  humps,    30 
Which  only  the  fisher  looks  grave  at,  while  round  him  like  imps 
Cling  screaming  the  children  as  naked  and  brown  as  his  shrimps  ; 
Himself  too  as  bare  to  the  middle  —  you  see  round  his  neck 
The  string  and  its  brass  coin  suspended,  that  saves  him  from  wreck. 
But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno  :  so  back,  to  a  man, 
Came  our  friends,  with   whose   help   in   the   vineyards  grape-harvest 

began. 


Il8  THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 

In  the  vat,  halfway  up  in  our  house-side,  like  blood  the  juice  spins. 

While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing  till  breathless  he  grins 

Dead-beaten  in  effort  on  effort  to  keep  the  grapes  under. 

Since  still,  when  he  seems  all  but  master,  in  pours  the  fresh  plunder  40 

From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going  with  basket  on  shoulder, 

And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain's  driving ;  your  girls  that  are  older,  — 

For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe,  and  where,  on  its  bed 

Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love-apple  lies  pulpy  and  red, 

All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling  their  laps  with  the  snails 

Tempted  out  by  this  first  rainy  weather,  —  your  best  of  regales, 

As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow,  when,  supping  in  state, 

We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners  (two  dozen,  three  over  one  plate) 

With  lasagne  so  tempting  to  swallow  in  slippery  ropes, 

And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices,  that  colour  of  popes.  50 

Meantime,  see  the  grape  bunch  they  've  brought  you :  the  rain-water 

slips 

O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe  which  the  wasp  to  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence.     Nay,  taste,  while  awake. 
This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball  that  peels,  flake  by  flake, 
Like  an  onion,  each  smoother  and  whiter :  next,  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper,  a  leaf  of  the  vine  ; 
And  end  with  the  prickly-pear's  red  flesh  that  leaves  thro'  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco  is  loose! 

Hark,  the  quick,  whistling  pelt  of  the  olives  which,  thick  in  one's  track, 
Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite  them,  tho'  not  yet  half  black!  60 
How  the  old  twisted  olive  trunks  shudder,  the  medlars  let  fall 
Their  hard  fruit,  and  the  brittle  great  fig-trees  snap  off,  figs  and  all, 
For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest !  no  refuge,  but  creep 
Back  again  to  my  side  and  my  shoulder,  and  listen  or  sleep. 

O  how  will  your  country  show  next  week,  when  all  the  vine-boughs 
Have  been  stripped  of  their  foliage  to  pasture  the  mules  and  the  cows  ? 
Last  eve,  I  rode  over  the  mountains ;  your  brother,  my  guide, 
Soon  left  me,  to  feast  on  the  myrtles  that  offered,  each  side, 
Their  fruit-balls,  black,  glossy,  and  luscious,  —  or  strip  from  the  sorbs 
A  treasure,  or,  rosy  and  wondrous,  those  hairy  gold  orbs!  70 

But  my  mule  picked  his  sure  sober  path  out,  just  stopping  to  neigh 
When  he  recognized  down  in  the  valley  his  mates  on  their  way 
Writh  the  faggots  and  barrels  of  water.     And  soon  we  emerged 
From  the  plain  where  the  woods  could  scarce  follow :  and  still,  as  we 

urged 

Our  way.  the  woods  wondered,  and  left  us,  as  up  still  we  trudged, 
Tho1  the    wild   path   grew  wilder  each  instant,   and  place  was   e'en 

grudged 
'Mid  the  rock-chasms  and  piles  of  loose  stones  like  the  loose  broken 

teeth 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  1 19 

Of  some  monster  which  climbed  there  to  die,  from  the  ocean  beneath  — 
Place  was  grudged  to  the  silver-gray  fume-weed  that  clung  to  the  path, 
And  dark  rosemary  ever  a-dying,  that,  'spite  the  wind's  wrath,  80 

So  loves  the  salt  rock's  face  to  seaward,  and  lentisks  as  stanch 
To  the  stone  where  they  root  and  bear  berries  :  and   .   .   .  what  shows 

a  branch 

Coral-coloured,  transparent,  with  circlets  of  pale  seagreen  leaves ; 
Over  all  trod  my  mule  with  the  caution  of  gleaners  o'er  sheaves. 
Still,  foot  after  foot  like  a  lady,  till,  round  after  round, 
He  climbed  to  the  top  of  Calvano  :  and  God's  own  profound 
Was  above  me,  and  round  me  the  mountains,  and  under,  the  sea, 
And  within  me  my  heart  to  bear  witness  what  was  and  shall  be. 
Oh,  heaven  and  the  terrible  crystal!  no  rampart  excludes 
Your  eye  from  the  life  to  be  lived  in  the  blue  solitudes.  90 

Oh,  those  mountains,  their  infinite  movement!  still  moving  with  you; 
For,  ever  some  new  head  and  breast  of  them  thrusts  into  view 
To  observe  the  intruder ;  you  see  it  if  quickly  you  turn 
And,  before  they  escape  you,  surprise  them.     They  grudge  you  should 

learn 

How  the  soft  plains  they  look  on,  lean  over  and  love  (they  pretend) 
—  Cower  beneath  them,  the  flat  sea-pine  crouches,  the  wild  fruit-trees 

bend, 

E'en  the  myrtle-leaves  curl,  shrink  and  shut :  all  is  silent  and  grave  : 
'T  is  a  sensual  and  timorous  beauty,  —  how  fair!  but  a  slave. 
So,  I  turned  to  the  sea ;  and  there  slumbered,  as  greenly  as  ever, 
Those  isles  of  the  siren,  your  Galli.     No  ages  can  sever  100 

The  Three,  nor  enable  their  sister  to  join  them,  —  halfway 
On  the  voyage,  she  looked  at  Ulysses  —  no  farther  to-day! 
Tho'  the  small  one,  just  launched  in  the  wave,  watches  breast-high  and 

steady 

From  under  the  rock  her  bold  sister,  swum  halfway  already. 
Fortu,  shall  we  sail  there  together,  and  see,  from  the  sides, 
Quite  new  rocks  show  their  faces,  new  haunts  where  the  siren  abides? 
Shall  we  sail  round  and  round  them,  close  over  the  rocks,  tho'  unseen, 
That  ruffle  the  gray  glassy  water  to  glorious  green  ? 
Then  scramble  from  splinter  to  splinter,  reach  land,  and  explore, 
On  the  largest,  the  strange  square  black  turret  with  never  a  door,      1 10 
Just  a  loop  to  admit  the  quick  lizards ;  then,  stand  there  and  hear 
The  birds'  quiet  singing,  that  tells  us  what  life  is,  so  clear? 
—  The  secret  they  sang  to  Ulysses  when,  ages  ago, 
He  heard  and  he  knew  this  life's  secret  I  hear  and  I  know. 

Ah,  see  !     The  sun  breaks  o'er  Calvano ;  he  strikes  the  great  gloom 
And  flutters  it  o'er  the  mount's  summit  in  airy  gold  fume. 
All  is  over.     Look  out,  see  the  gipsy,  our  tinker  and  smith, 
Has  arrived,  set  up  bellows  and  forge,  and  down-squatted  forthwith 
To  his  hammering  under  the  wall  there  ;  one  eye  keeps  aloof 
The  urchins  that  itch  to  be  putting  his  jews'-harps  to  proof,  •  120 


120         UP  AT  A    VILLA  — DOWN  IN  THE  CITY. 

While  the  other,  thro1  locks  of  curled  wire,  is  watching  how  sleek 
Shines  the  hog,  come  to  share  in  the  windfall.  —  Chew,  abbot's  own 

cheek ! 

All  is  over.     Wake  up  and  come  out  now,  and  down  let  us  go, 
And  see  the  fine  things  got  in  order  at  church  for  the  show 
Of  the  Sacrament,  set  forth  this  evening.     To-morrow 's  the  Feast 
Of  the  Rosary's  Virgin,  by  no  means  of  Virgins  the  least. 
As  you  '11  hear  in  the  off-hand  discourse  which  (all  nature,  no  art) 
The  Dominican  brother,  these  three  weeks,  was  getting  by  heart. 
Not  a  pillar  nor  post  but  is  dizened  with  red  and  blue  papers ; 
All  the  roof  waves  with  ribbons,  each  altar  a-blaze  with  long  tapers.  130 
But  the  great  masterpiece  is  the  scaffold  rigged  glorious  to  hold 
All  the  fiddlers  and  fifers  and  drummers  and  trumpeters  bold 
Not  afraid  of  Bellini  nor  Auber.  who,  when  the  priest 's  hoarse, 
Will  strike  us  up  something  that 's  brisk  for  the  feast's  second  course. 
And  then  will  the  flaxen-wigged  Image  be  carried  in  pomp 
Thro'  the  plain,  while,  in  gallant  procession,  the  priests  mean  to  stomp. 
All  round  the  glad  church  lie  old  bottles  with  gunpowder  stopped, 
Which  will  be,  when  the  Image  re-enters,  religiously  popped. 
And  at  night  from  the  crest  of  Calvano  great  bonfires  will  hang : 
On  the  plain  will  the  trumpets  join  chorus,  and  more  poppers  bang.  140 
At  all  events,  come  —  to  the  garden  as  far  as  the  wall ; 
See  me  tap  with  a  hoe  on  the  plaster,  till  out  there  shall  fall 
A  scorpion  with  wide  angry  nippers! 

—  "  Such  trifles!  "  you  say? 

Fortu,  in  my  England  at  home,  men  meet  gravely  to-day 
And  debate,  if  abolishing  Corn-laws  be  righteous  and  wise ! 
—  If 't  were  proper,  Scirocco  should  vanish  in  black  from  the  skies! 


UP  AT  A  VILLA  — DOWN   IN  THE   CITY. 

(AS  DISTINGUISHED   BY   AX  ITALIAN   PERSON   OF   QUALITY.) 


HAD  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city-square ; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there! 

II. 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least! 

There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast ; 

While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a  beast. 


UP  AT  A    VILLA  — DOWN  IN  THE  CITY          121 


in. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa!  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 

Just  on  a  mountain  edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 

Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull! 

—  I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair  's  turned  wool.        10 

IV. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city  —  the  square  with  the  houses !     Why  ? 

They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there  's  something  to  take  the  eye! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry ; 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who  hurries  by ; 

Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun  gets  high ; 

And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 

v. 

What  of  a  villa?     Tho'  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 

'T  is  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well  off  the  heights : 

You  Ve  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen  steam  and 

wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive-trees.  20 

VI. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you  ?     You  Ve  summer  all  at  once ; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three  fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick  and  sell. 

VII. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square  ?     There  's  a  fountain  to  spout  and  splash ! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs ;  in  the  shine  such  foam-bows  flash 
On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and  paddle  and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch  —  fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 
Tho' all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in  a  sort  of  sash.  30 

VIII. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you  linger, 
Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  lifted  forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and  mingle, 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill, 


122         UP  AT  A    VILLA  — DOWN  IN  THE   CITY. 

And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous  firs  on  the 

hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons,  —  I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever  and 

chill. 

IX. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells  begin : 
No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in  : 
You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin.  40 

By  and  by  there's  the  traveling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood,  draws 

teeth ; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture —  the  new  play,  piping  hot! 
And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves  were  shot. 
Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new  law  of  the 

Duke's ! 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don  So-and-so 
Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  St.  Jerome  and  Cicero. 
"  And  moreover,"  (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)  "  the  skirts  of  St.  Paul 

has  reached, 
Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous  than  ever 

he  preached."  50 

Noon  strikes,  —  here  sweeps  the  procession!    our  Lady  borne  smiling 

and  smart, 
With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck  in  her 

heart ! 

Bang-ivhang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife ; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still :  it 's  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life. 

x. 

But  bless  you,  it's  dear  —  it 's  dear!  fowls,  wine,  at  double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays  passing  the 

gate 

It 's  a  horror  to  think  of.     And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the  city! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers  :  but  still  —  ah,  the  pity,  the  pity! 
Look,  two  and  two'  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with   cowls   and 

sandals. 
And   the   penitents   dressed   in   white    shirts,   a-holding    the    yellow 

candles ;  60 

One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better  prevention  of 

scandals : 

Bang-iuhang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in  life! 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  123 


PICTOR    IGNOTUS. 

FLORENCE,    15 — . 

I  COULD  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth's 
Ye  praise  so.     How  my  soul  springs  up  !     No  bar 
Stayed  me  —  ah,  thought  which  saddens  while  it  soothes! 

—  Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all  my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God :  nor  would  my  flesh  have  shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like  thunder,  sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant ;  or  around 

Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan  1C 

The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 

Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I  saw, 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue ; 
Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 

A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 

Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to  its  place ;  20 

Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a  castle  braved,  — 
O  human  faces,  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ? 

\V  hat  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved  ? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well!) 

Of  going —  I,  in  each  new  picture,  —  forth, 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 

To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South,  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went,  30 

Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 

Thro'  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the  event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should  greet 

Aly  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet!  — 

Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture,  linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should  end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here, 
Here  on  my  earth,  earth's  every  man  my  friend, 

The  thought  grew  frightful,  't  was  so  wildly  dear !  40 

But  a  voice  changed  it.     Glimpses  of  such  sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  thro1  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites! 


I24 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPl. 

This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was  before. 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there  trooped 

.  .  .  Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that  begun 
To  press  on  me  and  judge  me?     Tho'  I  stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a  nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me  .  .  enough! 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and  give,  50 

Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 

And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures  live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of,  —  "  This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate 

This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less!" 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.     If  at  whiles 

My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series.  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint,  60 

With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard,  — 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand  apart : 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 

WThile,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall's  travertine, 

'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures!  surely,  gently  die! 

O  youth,  men  praise  so,  —  holds  their  praise  its  worth  ?     70 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry? 

Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of  earth  ? 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI. 

I  AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave ! 
You  need  not  clap 'your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks,  what 's  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a  monk ! 
What,  't  is  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar? 
The  Carmine  's  my  cloister  :  hunt  it  up, 
Do,  —  harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse,  10 

Weke,  iveke,  that 's  crept  to  keep  him  company! 
Aha.  you  know  your  betters  ?     Then,  you  '11  take 
Your  hand  away  that 's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 


12$ 


And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 

Why,  one.  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 

Three  streets  off —  he  's  a  certain  .  .  .  how  d'  ye  call  ? 

Master  —  a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 

I'  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh!  you  were  best! 

Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you  're  hanged, 

How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe !  20 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 

Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you : 

Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 

And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net? 

He  's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is! 

Just  such  a  face!     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 

Lord,  I  'm  not  angry !     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 

Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 

Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbours  me 

(And  many  more  beside,  lads!  more  beside!  )  30 

And  all 's  come  square  again.     I  'd  like  his  face  — 

His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 

With  the  pike  and  lantern,  —  for  the  slave  that  holds 

John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 

With  one  hand  ("  Look  you,  now,"  as  who  should  say) 

And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped! 

It 's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 

A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see ! 

Yes,  I  'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 

What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down,  40 

You  know  them,  and  they  take  you?  like  enough! 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye  — 

'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 

Let 's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 

Here  's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up  bands 

To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 

And  I  've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 

A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 

And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night  — 

Ouf  !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air.  50 

There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 

A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song? 

Flower  o1  the  broom. 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb! 

Flower  o'1  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since  ? 

Flower  a"1  the  thyme  —  and  so  on.     Round  they  went. 

Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 

Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight,  —  three  slim  shapes, 

And  a  face  that  looked  up  .  .  zooks,  sir,  flesh  and  blood,          60 

That 's  all  I  'm  made  of!     Into  shreds  it  went, 


126  FRA    LIPPO  LI  PPL 

Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 

All  the  bed-furniture  —  a  dozen  knots, 

There  was  a  ladder!     Down  I  let  myself, 

Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped, 

And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 

Hard  by  Saint  Laurence,  hail  fellow,  well  met,  — 

Flower  o  the  rose, 

If  I  'i>e  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows  f 

And  so,  as  I  was  stealing  back  again,  70 

To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 

Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 

On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 

With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 

You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see! 

Tho1  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head  — 

Mine  's  shaved  —  a  monk,  you  say  —  the  sting 's  in  that! 

If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 

Mum  's  the  word  naturally ;  but  a  monk! 

Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for?  tell  us,  now!  80 

I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 

And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 

On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 

Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day, 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 

Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 

(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge,  90 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words  there, 

While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month : 

"  So,  boy,  you  :re  minded,''  quoth  the  good  fat  father 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  :t  was  refection-time,  — 

"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 

Will  you  renounce  "  .  .  .  "  the  mouthful  of  bread  ?  " 

thought  I ; 

By  no  means!     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me  ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici  loo 

Have  given  their  hearts  to  —  all  at  eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure. 
'T  was  not  for  nothing  —  the  good  bellyful, 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside ! 
"  Let  's  see  what  the  urchin  's  fit  for  "  —  that  came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do!     They  tried  me  with  their  books : 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI. 


127 


Lord,  they  'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste! 

Flower  d1  the  clove,  no 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  zs,  "  amo"  I  love! 

But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 

Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was, 

Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 

The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 

And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 

Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 

Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 

Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 

The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again,  120 

Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped,  — 

How  say  I  ?  —  nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 

His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street,  — 

Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 

He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 

For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 

I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use : 

I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's  marge,  130 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 

Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's 

And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks  looked 

black. 

"Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "  turn  him  out,  d1  ye  say? 
In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 

And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine  140 

And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be ! " 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you!  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls  a  blank, 
Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean  :  then,  folk  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends,  — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot. 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there  150 

With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard,  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm. 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 


128  FRA   LIPPO  LIPPf. 

(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 
(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf,  160 

Her  pair  of  ear-rings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling)  prayed,  and  so  was  gone. 
I  painted  all,  then  cried,  "  *T  is  ask  and  have ; 
Choose,  for  more  's  ready!  "  —  laid  the  ladder  flat, 
And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 
The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 
Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 
Being  simple  bodies,  —  "  That 's  the  very  man ! 
Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog! 
That  woman  's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes  170 

To  care  about  his  asthma :  it 's  the  life ! " 
But  there  my  triumph 's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked ; 
Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 
The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 
And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.     "How!  what's  here? 
Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all! 
Faces,  arms,  legs  and  bodies  like  the  true 
As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it's  devil's  game! 
Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 
With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay,  180 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 
Make  them  forget  there 's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men  — 
Man's  soul,  and  it 's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  no,  it 's  not  .  . 
It 's  vapour  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe  — 
(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 
It's  .   .  well,  what  matters  talking,  it's  the  soul! 
-Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul!  * 
•Here  's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 
That  sets  us  praising,  —  why  not  stop  with  him?  190 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 
With  wonder  at  lines,  colours,  and  what  not? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms! 
Rub  all  out.  try  at  it  a  second  time! 
Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 
She 's  just  my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,  I  would  say,  — 
Who  went  and  danced,  and  got  men's  heads  cut  off! 
Have  it  all  out! "     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask? 
A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 

So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further  200 

And  can't  fare  worse !     Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 
When  what  you  put  for  yellow 's  simply  black, 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 


129 


When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 

Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 

Both  in  their  order?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 

The  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  patron-saint  —  is  it  so  pretty 

You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear,  210 

Sorrow  or  joy?  won't  beauty  go  with  these?          » 

Suppose  I  've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue,     \ 

Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash,        Vi 

And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold?  V 

Or  say  there 's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all  — 

(I  never  saw  it  — put  the  case  the  same —  ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else,       y 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents :     / 

That 's  somewhat :  and  you  '11  find  the  soul  you  have  missed, 

Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks.  22^ 

"  Rub  all  out! "     Well,  well,  there 's  my  life,  in  short, 

And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 

I  'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I  Ve  broken  bounds  : 

You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  yc  -irs  old 

And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 

I  'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please  — 

Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house ! 

Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front  — 

Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 

To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse !  230 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave  eyes 

Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work. 

The  heads  shake  still —  "  It 's  art's  decline,  my  son! 

You  're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old ; 

Brother  Angelico  's  the  man,  you  '11  find ; 

Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer : 

Fag  on  at  flesh,  you  '11  never  make  the  third!" 

flower  o1  the  pine, 

You  keep  your  mistr  .  .  .  manners,  and  I* II  stick  to  mine! 

I  'm  not  the  third,  then :  bless  us,  they  must  know!  240 

Don't  you  think  they  're  the  likeliest  to  know, 

They  with  their  Latin  ?     So,  I  swallow  my  r?.ge, 

Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 

To  please  them  —  sometimes  do,  and  sometimes  don't ; 

For,  doing  most,  there  's  pretty  sure  to  come 

A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints  — 

A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world  — 

{Flower  o"1  the  peach, 

Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each!) 

And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over,  250 

The  world  and  life 's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 


130 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI. 

And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 

And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 

In  pure  rage!     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 

After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 

Altho'  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 

The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 

What  would  men  have?     Do  they  like  grass  or  no  — 

May  they  or  may  n't  they?  all  I  want's  the  thing 

Settled  for  ever  one  way.     As  it  is,  260 

You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself: 

You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 

You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 

You  find  abundantly  detestable. 

For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught : 

I  always  see  the  garden,  and  God  there 

A-making  man's  wife :  and,  my  lesson  learned, 

TJhe  value  and  significance  of  flesh. 

I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me :  I  'm  a  beast,  I  know.  270 

But  see,  now  —  why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star 's  about  to  shine. 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We  've  a  youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do. 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop  : 
His  name  is  Guidi  —  he'll  not  mind  the  monks  — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk  — 
He  picks  my  practice  up  —  he  '11  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so  —  tho'  I  never  live  so  long, 

I  know  what's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge  !  280 

You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike ; 
However,  you  're  my  man,  you  've  seen  the  world 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power. 

The  shapes  of  things,  their  colours,  lights  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all! 

—  For  what?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  rivers  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above. 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child. 

These  are  the  frame  to  ?     What 's  it  all  about  ?  290 

To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon, 

Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last  of  course!  —  you  say. 

But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  —  paint  these 

Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it? 

God's  works  —  paint  any  one.  and  count  it  crime 

To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object.  "  His  works 

Are  here  already  ;  nature  is  complete  : 

Suppose  you  reproduce  her —  (which  you  can't) 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI.  13! 

There  's  no  advantage!  you  must  beat  her,  then." 

For,  don't  you  mark  ?  we  're  made  so  that  we  love  300 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see ; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted  —  better  to  us, 

Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that ; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now, 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face?     A  bit  of  chalk, 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though!     How  much  more 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth ! 

That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place,  310 

Interpret  God  to  all  of  you!     Oh,  oh, 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves !     This  world  's  no  blot  for  us/ 

Nor  blank  ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  : 

To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

"Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer!" 

Strikes  in  the  Prior :  "  when  your  meaning 's  plain 

It  does  not  say  to  folk  —  remember  matins, 

Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday! "     Why,  for  this 

What  need  of  art  at  all?     A  skull  and  bones,  320 

Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise,  or,  what 's  best, 

A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 

I  painted  a  Saint  Laurence  six  months  since 

At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style : 

"How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold  's  down?" 

I  ask  a  brother :  "  Hugely,"  he  returns  — 

"Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 

Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

But  's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own  330 

With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage : 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd  — 

Your  painting  serves  its  purpose!"     Hang  the  fools! 

—  That  is  —  you  '11  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  Got  wot, 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine! 
Oh,  the  church  knows!  don't  misreport  me,  now!  340 

It 's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself: 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me  :  I  shall  paint  a  piece 
.  .  .  There  's  for  you!     Give  me  six  months,  then  go,  see 


132 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPL 

Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's  !     Bless  the  nuns  \ 

They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall  paint 

God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 

Ringed  by  a  bowery  flowery  angel-brood, 

Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet  350 

As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 

When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 

And  then  i1  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two  — 

Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 

Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 

The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day, 

And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 

The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  z, 

Painters  who  need  his  patience).     Well,  all  these 

Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come  360 

Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect. 

As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 

Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo!     I!  — 

Mazed,  motionless  and  moon-struck  —  I  'm  the  man! 

Back  I  shrink  —  what  is  this  I  see  and  hear? 

I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things  by  mistake, 

My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company! 

Where 's  a  hole,  where  's  a  corner  for  escape? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing  370 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm  —  "  Not  so  fast!  " 

—  Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "  nay  — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Tho:  he  's  none  of  you  !     Could  Saint  John  there,  draw  — 

His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting-brush? 

We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 

fste  perfecit  opus ! "     So,  all  smile  — 

I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 

Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 

Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kittles  when  you  're  gay  380 

And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 

Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 

The  hothead  husband!     Thus  I  scuttle  off 

To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 

The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 

That  spoke  the  good  word  tor  me  in  the  nick. 

Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 

And  so  all 's  saved  for  me.  and  for  the  church 

A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence! 

Your  hand,  sir,  and  good  bye  :  no  lights,  no  lights!  390 

The  street 's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back, 

Don't  fear  me !     There  's  the  gray  beginning.     Zooks ! 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  j  33 

ANDREA  DEL   SARTO. 
(CALLED  "THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTER.") 

BUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia!  bear  with  me  for  once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I  '11  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it?  tenderly? 
Oh,  I  '11  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow,  Love !  10 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual :  and  it  seems 
As  if —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this!  20 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither ;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require  : 
It  saves  a  model.     So!  keep  looking  so  — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet  — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks —  no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile?  why,  there  's  my  picture  ready  made, 

There  's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, — 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That 's  gone,  you  know)  —  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  40 

There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top ; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 


134 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ;  50 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie ! 

This  chamber  for  example  —  turn  your  head  - 

All  that 's  behind  us!     You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak  : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  things  should  be  — 
Behold  Madonna!  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,  60 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps  :  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week  ; 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that 's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

—  Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do,  70 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  ringers,  and  not  leave  this  town. 

Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  — so  much  less! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia  :  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain,          80 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that 's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Tho'  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a  word  — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself,  90 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 


135 


Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken  ;  what  of  that?  or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;  what  of  that  ? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what 's  a  heaven  for?     All  is  silver-gray, 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain,  loo 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself. 

Our  head  would  have  overlooked  the  world ! "  No  doubt. 

Yonder  !s  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

('T  is  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  thro'  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way;  no 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there  again  — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right  —  that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it : 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me!     And  wherefore  out? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you! 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think —  120 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory !  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo!  130 

Rafael  is  waiting :  up  to  God,  all  three! " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  of  has  Agnolo  ? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not; 

And  who  would  do  it,  can  not,  I  perceive : 

Yet  the  will 's  somewhat  —  somewhat,  too,  the  power 


136  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end,  140 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside ; 
But  they  speak  sometimes  ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 
Well  may  they  speak!     That  Francis,  that  first  time. 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  !  150 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,  — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls  1 60 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts,  — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward  ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know  — 
'T  is  done  and  past ;  't  was  right,  my  instinct  said ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray : 
And  I  'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world.  170 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was  —  to  reach  and  stay  there  ;  since 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife  —  " 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge  1 80 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence ;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 
(When  the  young  man  was  naming  out  his  thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 


ANDREA  DEL   SARTO. 


137 


Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how,  190 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours! " 

To  Rafael's!  —  And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he  's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?)  200 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  so  lost,  — 

Is,  whether  you're  —  not  grateful  —  but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour!     Another  smile? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there 's  a  star ; 

Morello  's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by.  210 

Come  from  the  window,  love,  —  come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me :  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go? 

That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside?  220 

Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me?     Those  loans? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work  's  my  ware,  and  what 's  it  worth  ? 

I  '11  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Virgin's  face,  230 

Not  yours  this  time!     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 


1 38  THE  BISHOP    ORDERS  HIS   TOMB  AT 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs  ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What 's  better  and  what 's  all  I  care  about,  240 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff  ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you?     Ah,  but  what  does  he; 

The  Cousin!  what  does  he  to  please  you  more? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis!  —  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want.  250 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich!     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died  : 
And  I  have  laboured  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance —         260 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife. 
While  I  have  mine!     So  —  still  they  overcome 
Because  there  's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!     Go,  my  Love. 


THE   BISHOP   ORDERS   HIS   TOMB   AT   SAINT   PRAXED'S 

CHURCH. 

ROME,    15 — . 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity! 
Draw  round  my  bed:  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 
Nephews  —  sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not!     Well  — 
She.  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was! 


ST.   PRAXE&S  CHURCH. 

What  's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 

And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 

And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world  's  a  dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie  io 

In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 

Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 

"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     Peace,  peace  seems  all. 

Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace ; 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.     I  fought 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know : 

—  Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care  ; 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence  20 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o1   the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam  's  sure  to  lurk  : 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands  : 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse.  30 

—  Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him !     True  peach, 
Rosy  and  flawless  :  how  I  earned  the  prize! 
Draw  close  :  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

—  What  then?     So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?     Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 

And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I !  .  .  . 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft,  40 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  laztili, 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So.  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst!  50 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years : 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 

Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?     Black  — 


1 40  THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS   TOMB. 

'T  was  ever  antique-black  I  meant!     How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath  ? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan  60 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not !     What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm  ?  •  Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me  —  all  of  jasper,  then! 

'T  is  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas!  70 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world  — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs? 

—  That 's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 
Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 
No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf  s  second  line  — 
Tully,  my  masters?     Ulpian  serves  his  need! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  thro'  centuries,  80 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook , 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's-work :  90 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

—  Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tuily,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best!  100 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 


A   TOCCATA   OF  GALUPPPS. 


141 


All  lapis,  all,  sons!     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas !     Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze. 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down,  Iio 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"    There,  leave  me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death  —  ye  wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish  it!     Stone  — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble!     Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through  — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world! 

Well,  go!     I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there, 

But  in  a  row  :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs  I2O 

—  Ay.  like  departing  altar-mi nistrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers  — 

Old  Gandolf  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was! 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S. 
I. 

DH  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find! 
I  can  hardly  misconceive  you ;  it  would  prove  me  deaf  and  blind ;. 
Jut  altho'  I  take  your  meaning,  't  is  with  such  a  heavy  mind! 

II. 

lere  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here  's  all  the  good  it  brings. 
Vhat,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants  were  the 

kings, 
Vhere  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea  with  rings? 

nf. 

^.y,  because  the  sea 's  the  street  there ;  and  't  is  arched  by     ... 

what  you  call 
.     .     Shylock's   bridge   with   houses   on   it,  where   they  kept   the 

carnival : 
was  never  out  of  England  —  it 's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 


142  A   TOCCATA    OF  GALlfPPrS. 


IV. 


Did   young  people   take   their  pleasure   when   the   sea  was  warm  in 
May?  10 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  mid-day, 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow,  do  you  say? 


v. 


Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red,  — 

On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on  its  bed, 

O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might  base  his  head? 


vr. 


Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them  :  they  'd  break  talk  off  and  afford 
—  She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet  —  he,  to  finger  on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord? 


VII. 


What?     Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished,  sigh  on 

sigh, 
Told  them  something?     Those  suspensions,  those  solutions  —  "Must 

we  die  ? "  20 

Those  commiserating  sevenths  —  "  Life  might  last !  we  can  but  try ! " 


VIII. 


"Were   you  happy?"  —  "Yes."  —  "And  are  you  still  as  happy?"  — 

"Yes.     And  you?" 
—  "Then,  more  kisses!"  —  "Did  /stop  them,  when  a  million  seemed 

so  few  ?  " 
Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  answered  to! 


IX. 


So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     Oh,  they  praised  you,  I  dare  say! 
"  Brave  Galuppi!  that  was  music!  good  alike  at  grave  and  gay! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master  play! " 


x. 


Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due  time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as  well  undone, 
Death   stepped   tacitly    and   took    them   where    they   never  see   the 
sun.  3° 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A    CONTEMPORARY. 


XI. 


3ut  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand  nor  swerve, 
Vhile  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close  reserve, 
n  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep  thro'  every  nerve. 


XII. 


fes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house  was  burned : 
Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and   done   with,  Venice   spent   what   Venice 

earned, 
rhe  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal  —  where  a  soul  can  be  discerned. 


xm. 


;  Yours  for  instance :  you  know  physics,  something  of  geology, 
/lathematics  are  your  pastime ;  souls  shall  rise  in  their  degree ; 
butterflies  may  dread  extinction,  —  you'll  not  die,  it  can  not  be  ! 


XIV. 


As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and  drop,  40 
lere  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly  were  the  crop : 
Vhat  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had  to  stop? 


Dust  and  ashes! "     So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the  heart  to  scold. 
)ear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too  —  what 's   become   of  all  the 

gold 
Jsed  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ?     I  feel  chilly  and  grown  old. 


I 


HOW   IT   STRIKES   A   CONTEMPORARY 

ONLY  knew  one  poet  in  my  life : 

And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  his  way. 


You  saw  go  up  and  down  Valladolid, 
A  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  ha've  worn  it,  tho'  none  did : 
The  cloak,  that  somewhat  shone  and  showed  the  threads, 
Had  purpose,  and  the  ruff,  significance. 

He  walked,  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cane,  10 

Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face, 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A    CONTEMPORARY. 

An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels. 

They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by  the  church, 

That  leads  no  whither ;  now,  they  breathed  themselves 

On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the  wrong  time : 

You  'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat. 

Making  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than  itself 

Against  the  single  window  spared  some  house 

Intact  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moorish  work, — 

Or  else  surprise  the  ferrel  of  his  stick  20 

Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween  the  chinks 

Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French  and  fine. 

He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 

The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 

The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 

That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its  winch. 

He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 

And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 

And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 

He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things,  30 

If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw ; 

If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note ; 

Yet  stared  at  nobody,  —  you  stared  at  him, 

And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than  surprise, 

He  seemed  to  know  you  and  expect  as  much. 

So,  next  time  that  a  neighbours  tongue  was  loosed, 

It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious  fact 

We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a  spy 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town  but  knew!  40 

We  merely  kept  a  governor  for  form, 

While  this  man  walked  about  and  took  account 

Of  all  thought,  said  and  acted,  then  went  home, 

And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the  King 

Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  he  knows  why, 

And  reads  them  in  his  bed-room  of  a  night. 

Oh,  you  might  smile!  there  wanted  not  a  touch, 

A  tang  of  ...  well,  it  was  not  wholly  ease 

As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's  look  came. 

Stricken  in  years  a  little  —  such  a  brow  50 

His  eyes  had  to  live  under!  —  clear  as  flint 

On  either  side  the  formidable  nose 

Curved,  cut  and  coloured  like  an  eagle's  claw. 

Had  he  to  do  with  A's  surprising  fate  ? 

When  altogether  old  B  disappeared 

And  young  C  got  his  mistress,  —  was 't  our  friend, 

His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it  all? 

What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so  much  pains? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favourites  manifold, 


HO IV  IT  STRIKES  A    CONTEMPORARY. 


145 


And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a  month ;  60 

Our  city  gets  new  governors  at  whiles,  — 

But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could  hear, 

Notified  to  this  man  about  the  streets, 

The  King's  approval  of  those  letters  conned 

The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of  night. 

Did  the  man  love  his  office  ?     Frowned  our  Lord, 

Exhorting  when  none  heard  —  "  Beseech  me  not! 

Too  far  above  my  people,  —  beneath  me! 

I  set  the  watch,  —  how  should  the  people  know? 

Forget  them,  keep  me  all  the  more  in  mind! "  70 

Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt  the  two? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at  least  — 
That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home,  down  lanes 
Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to  pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his  supper  in  a  room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on  the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his  plate! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of  life 
In  that  new  stuccoed  third  house  by  the  bridge, 
Fresh-painted,  rather  smart  than  otherwise!  80 

The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him  as  he  sat, 
Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's  back, 
Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his  maid 
(Jacynth,  you  're  sure  her  name  was)  o'er  the  cheese 
And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved  winter-pears, 
Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April.     Nine, 
Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight  to  bed  went  he. 

My  father,  like  the  man  of  sense  he  was, 
Would  point  him  out  to  me  a  dozen  times ; 
«  St  —  St,"  he  'd  whisper,  "  the  Corregidor! "  90 

I  had  been  used  to  think  that  personage 
Was  one  with  lacquered  breeches,  lustrous  belt, 
And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 
Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed  the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each  church  its  turn, 
And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us  boys ; 
We  were  in  error ;  that  was  not  the  man. 

I  'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid, 
To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man  came  to  die,  100 

And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret  sides, 
And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed, 
With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 


I46  PROTUS. 

Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in-chief, 

Thro1  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  death, 

Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 

In  his  old  coat  and  up  to  knees  in  mud, 

Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a  crust,  — 

And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once! 

No  further  show  or  need  for  that  old  coat,  1 10 

You  are  sure,  for  one  thing !     Bless  us,  all  the  while 

How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  I ! 

A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that. 

Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse,  —  could  you? 

Let 's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time. 


PROTUS. 

AMONG  these  latter  busts  we  count  by  scores, 
Half-emperors  and  quarter-emperors, 
Each  with  his  bay-leaf  fillet,  loose-thonged  vest, 
Loric  and  low-browed  Gorgon  on  the  breast,  — 
One  loves  a  baby  face,  with  violets  there, 
Violets  instead  of  laurel  in  the  hair. 
As  those  were  all  the  little  locks  could  bear. 

Now  read  here,  "  Protus  ends  a  period 

Of  empery  beginning  with  a  god  ; 

Born  in  the  porphyry  chamber  at  Byzant,  10 

Queens  by  his  cradle,  proud  and  minlstrant : 

And  if  he  quickened  breath  there,  't  would  like  fire 

Pantingly  thro'  the  dim  vast  realm  transpire. 

A  fame  that  he  was  missing,  spread  afar : 

The  world  from  its  four  corners  rose  in  war, 

Till  he  was  borne  out  on  a  balcony 

To  pacify  the  world  when  it  should  see. 

The  captains  ranged  before  him,  one,  his  hand 

Made  baby  points  at,  gained  the  chief  command. 

And  day  by  day  more  beautiful  he  grew  20 

In  shape,  all  said,  in  feature  and  in  hue, 

While  young  Greek  sculptors  gazing  on  the  child 

Became  with  old  Greek  sculpture  reconciled. 

Already  sages  laboured  to  condense 

In  easy  tomes  a  life's  experience  : 

And  artists  took  grave  counsel  to  impart 

In  one  breath  and  one  hand-sweep,  all  their  art, 

To  make  his  graces  prompt  as  blossoming 

Of  plentifully-watered  palms  in  spring  : 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA.  i^j 

Since  well  beseems  it,  whoso  mounts  the  throne,  30 

For  beauty,  knowledge,  strength,  should  stand  alone, 
And  mortals  love  the  letters  of  his  name." 

—  Stop!     Have  you  turned  two  pages ?     Still  the  same. 

New  reign,  same  date.     The  scribe  goes  on  to  say 

How  that  same  year,  on  such  a  month  and  day, 

"John  the  Pannonian,  groundedly  believed 

A  blacksmith's  bastard,  whose  hard  hand  reprieved 

The  Empire  from  its  fate  the  year  before,  — 

Came,  had  a  mind  to  take  the  crown,  and  wore 

The  same  for  six  years  (during  which  the  Huns  40 

Kept  off  their  fingers  from  us),  till  his  sons 

Put  something  in  his  liquor"  —  and  so  forth. 

Then  a  new  reign.     Stay  —  "  Take  at  its  just  worth  " 

(Subjoins  an  annotator)  "what  I  give 

As  hearsay.     Some  think,  John  let  Protus  live 

And  slip  away.     'T  is  said,  he  reached  man's  age 

At  some  blind  northern  court ;  made,  first  a  page, 

Then  tutor  to  the  children  ;  last,  of  use 

About  the  hunting  stables.     I  deduce 

He  wrote  the  little  tract  '  On  worming  dogs,'  50 

Whereof  the  name  in  sundry  catalogues 

Is  extant  yet.     A  Protus  of  the  race 

Is  rumoured  to  have  died  a  monk  in  Thrace,  — 

And,  if  the  same,  he  reached  senility." 

Here  's  John  the  Smith's  rough-hammered  head.     Great  eye, 
Gross  jaw  and  griped  lips  do  what  granite  can 
To  give  you  the  crown-grasper.     What  a  man  ! 


MASTER   HUGUES   OF   SAXE-GOTHA. 


HIST,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft! 
Forth  and  be  judged,  Master  Hugues ! 
Answer  the  question  I  Ve  put  you  so  oft : 

What  do  you  mean  by  your  mountainous  fugues? 
See,  we  're  alone  in  the  loft,  — 


II. 


I,  the  poor  organist  here, 

Hugues,  the  composer  of  note, 


I48  MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 

Dead  though,  and  done  with,  this  many  a  year : 

Let  's  have  a  colloquy,  something  to  quote, 
Make  the  world  prick  up  its  ear!  10 


nr. 


See,  the  church  empties  apace : 

Fast  they  extinguish  the  lights. 
Hallo  there,  sacristan!     Five  minutes'  grace! 

Here  's  a  crank  pedal  wants  setting  to  rights, 
Balks  one  of  holding  the  base. 


IV. 


See,  our  huge  house  of  the  sounds, 

Hushing  its  hundreds  at  once, 
Bids  the  last  loiterer  back  to  his  bounds! 

—  O  you  may  challenge  them,  not  a  response 
Get  the  church-saints  on  their  rounds!  20 


V. 


(Saints  go  their  rounds,  who  shall  doubt? 

—  March,  with  the  moon  to  admire, 
Up  nave,  down  chancel,  turn  transept  about, 

Supervise  all  betwixt  pavement  and  spire, 
Put  rats  and  mice  to  the  rout  — 


VI. 


Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just  — 

Order  things  back  to  their  place, 
Have  a  sharp  eye  lest  the  candlesticks  rust, 

Rub  the  church-plate,  darn  the  sacrament-lace, 
Clear  the  desk-velvet  of  dust.)  30 

VII. 

• 
Here  's  your  book,  younger  folks  shelve! 

Played  I  not  off-hand  and  runningly, 
Just  now,  your  masterpiece,  hard  number  twelve  ? 

Here  's  what  should  strike,  could  one  handle  it  cunningly : 
Help  ^Jie  axe,  give  it  a  helve ! 

VIII. 

Page  after  page  as  I  played, 

Every  bar's  rest,  where  one  wipes 
Sweat  from  one's  brow,  I  looked  up  and  surveyed, 

O'er  my  three  claviers,  yon  forest  of  pipes 
Whence  you  still  peeped  in  the  shade.  40 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 


149 


IX. 


Sure  you  were  wishful  to  speak  ? 

You,  with  brow  ruled  like  a  score, 
Yes,  and  eyes  buried  in  pits  on  each  cheek,  « 

Like  two  great  breves,  as  they  wrote  them  of  yore, 
Each  side  that  bar,  your  straight  beak! 


Sure  you  said  — "  Good,  the  mere  notes! 

Still,  couldst  thou  take  my  intent, 
Know  what  procured  me  our  Company's  votes  — 

A  master  were  lauded  and  sciolists  shent, 
Parted  the  sheep  from  the  goats!"  50 


Well  then,  speak  up,  never  flinch! 

Quick,  ere  my  candle  's  a  snuff 
—  Burnt,  do  you  see?  to  its  uttermost  inch  — 

/  believe  in  you,  but  that  's  not  enough : 
Give  my  conviction  a  clinch ! 

XII. 

I1  irst  you  deliver  your  phrase 

—  Nothing  propound,  that  I  see, 
Fit  in  itself  for  much  blame  or  much  praise  — 

Answered  no  less,  where  no  answer  needs  be : 
Off  start  the  Two  on  their  ways.  60 

XIII. 

Straight  must  a  Third  interpose, 

Volunteer  needlessly  help ; 
In  strikes  a  Fourth,  a  Fifth  thrusts  in  his  nose, 

So  the  cry  's  open,  the  kennel  's  a-yelp, 
Argument 's  hot  to  the  close. 

XIV. 

One  dissertates,  he  is  candid  ; 

Two  must  discept,  —  has  distinguished 
Three  helps  the  couple,  if  ever  yet  man  did ; 
.    Four  protests  ;  Five  makes  a  dart  at  the  thing  wished  : 
Back  to  One,  goes  the  case  bandied.  70 

xv. 

One  says  his  say  with  a  difference ; 
More  of  expounding,  explaining! 


150 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 

All  now  is  wrangle,  abuse  and  vociferance ; 

Now  there  's  a  truce,  all  's  subdued,  self-restraining : 
Five,  though,  stands  out  all  the  stiffer  hence. 

XVI. 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive  ; 

Two  retorts,  nettled,  curt,  crepitant ; 
Three  makes  rejoinder,  expansive,  explosive  : 

Four  overbears  them  all.  strident  and  strepitant : 
Five  .  .     O  Danaides,  O  Sieve!  80 

XVII. 

Now,  they  ply  axes  and  crowbars  ; 

Now,  they  prick  pins  at  a  tissue 
Fine  as  a  skein  of  the  casuist  Escobar's 

Worked  on  the  bone  of  a  lie.     To  what  issue? 
Where  is  our  gain  at  the  Two-bars  ? 

XVIII. 

Est  fuga,  volvitur  rota. 

On  we  drift :  where  looms  the  dim  port  ? 
One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  contribute  their  quota ; 

Something  is  gained,  if  one  caught  but  the  import  — 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha!  90 

XIX. 

What  with  affirming,  denying, 

Holding,  risposting,  subjoining, 

All 's  like  ....  it 's  like  ....  for  an  instance  I  'm 
trying  .  .  . 

There!     See  our  roof,  its  gilt  moulding  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying! 

xx. 

So  your  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 

Greatens  and  deepens  and  lengthens, 
Till  we  exclaim  —  "  But  where  's  music,  the  dickens  ? 

Blot  ye  the  gold,  while  your  spider-web  strengthens 
—  Blacked  to  the  stoutest  of  tickens  ? "  100 

XXI. 

I  for  man's  effort  am  zealous : 

Prove  me  such  censure  unfounded ! 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA.  j^j 

Seems  it  surprising  a  lover  grows  jealous  — 

Hopes  't  was  for  something,  his  organ  pipes  sounded 
Tiring  three  boys  at  the  bellows? 

XXII. 

Is  it  your  moral  of  Life? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent  strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife  ?  no 

XXIII. 

Over  our  heads  truth  and  nature  — 

Still  our  life's  zigzags  and  dodges, 
Ins  and  outs,  weaving  a  new  legislature  — 

God's  gold  just  shining  its  last  where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  man's  usurpature. 

XXIV. 

So  we  o'ershroud  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland ; 
Nothings  grow  something  which  quietly  closes 

Heaven's  earnest  eye  :  not  a  glimpse  of  the  far  land 
Gets  thro'  our  comments  and  glozes.      .  120 

xxv. 

Ah  but  traditions,  inventions, 

(Say  we  and  make  up  a  visage) 
So  many  men  with  such  various  intentions, 

Down  the  past  ages,  must  know  more  than  this  age ! 
Leave  we  the  web  its  dimensions ! 

XXVI. 

Who  thinks  Hugues  wrote  for  the  deaf, 

Proved  a  mere  mountain  in  labour? 
Better  submit ;  try  again ;  what 's  the  clef? 

'Faith,  't  is  no  trifle  for  pipe  and  for  tabor  — 
Four  flats,  the  minor  in  F.  130 

XXVII. 

Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger : 

Learning  it  once,  who  would  lose  it  ? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving  will  linger, 

Truth  's  golden  o'er  us  altho'  we  refuse  it  — 
Nature,  thro'  cobwebs  we  string  her. 


152  AST  VOGLER. 


XXVIII. 

Hugues!     I  advise  med  pcend 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  clear  the  arena! 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  full-organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina.  140 

XXIX. 

While  in  the  roof,  if  I  'm  right  there, 

.  .  .  Lo  you,  the  wick  in  the  socket! 
Hallo,  you  sacristan,  show  us  a  light  there! 

Down  it  dips,  gone  like  a  rocket. 
What,  you  want,  do  you,  to  come  unawares, 
Sweeping  the  church  up  for  first  morning-prayers, 
And  find  a  poor  devil  has  ended  his  cares 
At  the  foot  of  your  rotten-runged  rat-riddled  stairs  ? 

Do  I  carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket  ? 


e,(uH^ 


Ci 

,EEN    EXTEMPORIZING    UPON   THE   MUSICAL    INSTRU- 
MENT  OF   HIS   INVENTION.) 
•  ^     *>  -J  f  .,    y*3 

I. 

WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 
Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solomon  willed 

Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly,  —  alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep  removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he  loved! 


Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 

This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned  to  raise!    10 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and   now  com- 
bine, 

Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his  praise! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to  hell,  /•) 

Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace  well, 

Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 


AST  VOGLER. 


153 


ill. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent  minion  he 
was, 

Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest :  20 

For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 

When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night  — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to  spire) 

Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my  soul  was  in 
sight. 

rv. 

In  sight?     Not   half!     for  it   seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match  man's 
birth, 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort    to    reach    the 
earth, 

As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the  sky : 
Novel  splendours  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with  mine, 

Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed  its  wandering  star ;  30 

Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 

For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near  nor  far. 

v. 

Nay  more ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare  and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place ;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at  last ; 
Or  else   the  wonderful   Dead  who   have   passed  thro'  the   body  and 

gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth  their 

new : 

What  never  had  been,  was  now;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon ; 
And  what  is,  —  shall  I  say,  matched  both  ?     for  I  was  made  per- 
fect too.  40 

VI. 

•All  thro'  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 

All  thro'  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly  forth, 
All  thro'  music  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I  painted  the  whole, 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder-worth : 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse  —  still,  effect  proceeds  from 

cause, 

Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is  told ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud,  in  the  artist-list  enrolled :  — 


154 


ABT  VOGLER. 


But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them,  and,  lo,  they  are!  50 

And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught ; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world  —  loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought, 

And,  there!     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :  consider  and  bow  the  head! 

VIII. 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared ; 

Gone!  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too  slow ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 

That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go.  60 

Never  to  be  again!     But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance :  is  this  your  comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God  :  ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 


Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  Thee,  the  ineffable  Name? 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands  ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same? 

Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !     What  was,  shall  live  as  before  : 

The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound :  70 

What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good  more  ; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect  round. 

x. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist, 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard  ; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once  :  we  shall  hear  it  by-and-by.  80 

XI. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days?     Have  we  withered  or  agonized? 

VVhv  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue  thence.' 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  that  harmony  should  be  prized? 


TWO  IK  THE  CAMPAGNA.  ^5 

Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe : 

But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome ;  't  is  we  musicians  know. 

XII. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me ;  silence  resumes  her  reign  : 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce.  90 

Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor,  —  yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Surveying  awhile  the  heights  1  rolled  from  into  the  deep : 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is  found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life  :  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 


TWO   IN   THE   CAMPAGNA. 


I  WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 
As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 
We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 

In  spirit  better  thro'  the  land, 
This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  ? 

II. 

For  me.  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go.  10 

in. 

Help  me  to  hold  it!     First  it  left 

The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 
There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 

Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :  yonder  weed 
Took  up  the  floating  weft, 

IV. 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, —  blind  and  green  they  grope 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

Among  the  honey-meal :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope, 
I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast!    '  2O 


The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air  — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

vr. 

Such  life  here,  thro'  such  lengths  of  hours. 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 
While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers!  30 


How  say  you?     Let  us,  O  my  dove? 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love? 


I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 
Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free! 

Where  does  the  fault  lie?     What  the  core 
O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be?  40 


I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs,  —  your  part   my  part 

In  life>  for  good  and  ill. 

x. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  souPs  warmth,  —  I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak  — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 


"DE    GUSTIBUS-" 


XI. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute?     Must  I  go 
Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 
Fixed  by  no  friendly  star? 

XII. 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn! 

Where  is  the  thread  now?     Off  again. 
The  old  trick!     Only  I  discern  — 

Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn.  60 


«DE   GUSTIBUS  — " 


YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 
(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice  — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon,  10 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June! 


What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 

O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands)  —  20 

In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 

Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 

And  one  sharp  tree  —  'tis  a  cypress  —  stands, 

By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 


158  THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted 

My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 

To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 

Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 

Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break  ? 

While,  in  the  house,  for  ever  crumbles  30 

Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 

From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 

A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 

Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 

And  says  there  's  news  to-day  —  the  king 

Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 

Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling : 

—  She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me —  40 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her.  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be ! 


THE   GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

A   PICTURE  AT   FANO. 


DEAR  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me! 
Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 

Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou.  suspending 
Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

n. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze. 

—  And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb  —  and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me,  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door. 


THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 


159 


I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  1  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether  20 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread  ? 


If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain  which  too  much  thought  expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppressed. 

V. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies  30 

And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it !     All  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 

VI. 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend!)  —  that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently,  —  with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him  40 

Of  work  to  do,  tho'  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

vn. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 

To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 
And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 

—  My  angel  with  me  too  :  and  since  I  care 
For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 
And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 

Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent)  — 


!6o  EVELYN  HOPE. 

VIII. 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly  50 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong  — 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me. 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend? 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 


EVELYN  HOPE. 


T)EAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 
JL)  Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed.  I  think  : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

n. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name ;  IO 

It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares,  — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew  —  20 

And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  oid 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide. 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside? 

IV. 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 


EVELYN  HOPE.  l6l 

And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love : 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Thro'  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few :  30 

Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 


But  the  time  will  come,  at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead.  40 

VI. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see ! 

VII. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold ;  50 

There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 
smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young 

gold. 
So  hush,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand 


1 62  MEMORABILIA. 

MEMORABILIA. 


AH,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new! 


But  you  were  living  before  that, 
And  also  you  are  living  after ; 

And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 
My  starting  moves  your  laughter! 


I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 

And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt,  10 

Yet  a  hand's-breadih  of  it  shines  alone 

'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about ; 


IV. 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


APPARENT   FAILURE. 

"  We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building." 

Paris  Newspaper 
I. 

NO,  for  I  '11  save  it!     Seven  years  since, 
I  passed  thro'  Paris,  stopped  a  day 
To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince ; 

Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my  way : 
Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 
I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 
Thought  of  the  Congress,  Gortschakoff, 

Cavour's  appeal  and  Duel's  replies, 
So  sauntered  till  —  what  met  my  eyes  ? 


APPARENT  FAILURE. 


163 


n. 

Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue!  10 

The  dead-house  where  you  show  your  drowned : 
Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the  Sorgue, 

Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine  renowned. 
One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case ; 

I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered, — stalked, 
Keeping  a  tolerable  face 

Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks  were  chalked : 
Let  them!     No  Briton  's  to  be  balked! 

in. 

First  came  the  silent  gazers  ;  next, 

A  screen  of  glass,  we  're  thankful  for ;  20 

Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves  :  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  their  sin 's  atoned. 


Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that! 

The  reverence  struck  me  ;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat,  30 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 
Sacred  from  touch  :  each  had  his  berth, 

His  bounds,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 
Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 

Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast,  — 
Unless  the  plain  asphalt  seemed  best. 


How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy? 

You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 
And  have  the  Tuileries  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke  your  heart?  40 

You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller!     Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You  've  gained  what  no  Republic  missed? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclench  your  fist! 

VI. 

And  this  —  why,  he  was  red  in  vain, 
Or  black,  —  poor  fellow  that  is  blue! 


1 64  PROSPICE. 

What  fancy  was  it,  turned  your  brain  ? 

Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you! 
Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice  50 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust! 


It 's  wiser  being  good  than  bad  ; 

It 's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce : 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Tho'  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched ; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst. 


PROSPICE. 


flA 


FEAR  death?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote  Cy    . 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained,     ^ 

And  the  barriers  fall,  10 

Tho'  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained,    is  %n  i/  <,^> 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute  's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 


"CHILDE  ROLAND." 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul!     1  shall  clasp  thee  again,  i 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 


"CHILDE   ROLAND   TO   THE   DARK   TOWER  CAME." 

(See  Edgar's  song  in  "  LEAR.") 


MY  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 


What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travelers  who  might  find  him  posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road  ?     I  guessed  what  skull-like  laugh  10 

Would  break,  what  crutch  'gin  write  my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 

ill. 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree. 

Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 
I  did  turn  as  he  pointed :  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 

So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

IV. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wandering, 

What  with  my  search  drawn  out  thro'  years,  my  hope        20 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would  bring,  — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 


!66  "  CHILD E  ROLAND   TO   THE 

v. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 
Freelier  outside,  ("  since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith, 

"  And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving  can  amend ;  ")  30 

VI. 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 

Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 

Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and  staves : 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 

He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and  stay. 

VII. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "  The  Band  "  —  to  wit, 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed        40 
Their  steps  —  that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now  —  should  I  be  fit  ? 

VIII 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 

That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 

Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 

Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

IX. 

For  mark !  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 

Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two,  50 

Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view 

O'er  the  safe  road,  't  was  gone ;  gray  plain  all  round : 

Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on  ;  naught  else  remained  to  do. 

x. 

So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved  ignoble  nature  ;  nothing  throve : 


DARK  TOWER   CAME:'1  ^7 

For  flowers  —  as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove ! 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 

You  'd  think  ;  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure  trove.  60 

XI. 

No!  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 

In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion.     "  See 

Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"  It  nothing  skills  :  I  can  not  help  my  case  : 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this  place, 

Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 

XII. 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 

Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped ;  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those  holes  and  rents 

In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as  to  balk  70 

All  hope  of  greenness  ?  \  is  a  brute  must  walk 
Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 


As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 

In  leprosy ;  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with  blood. 

One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 

Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there : 

Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud! 

xrv. 

Alive  ?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 

With  that  red  gaunt  and  colloped  neck  a-strain,  80 

And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane ; 
Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe ; 
I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so ; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

xv. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterwards  —  the  soldier's  art: 

One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights.  90 


!68  "CH1LDE  ROLAND   TO   THE 

XVI. 

Not  it !  I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold. 

Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     Alas,  one  night's  disgrace! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

XVII. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honour  —  there  he  stands 

Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 

What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said)  he  durst. 
Good  —  but  the  scene  shifts  —  faugh!  what  hangman 

hands  100 

Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment?     His  own  bands 

Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst! 


Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that ; 

Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again! 

No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 
Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat? 
I  asked :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 

Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change  their  train. 

XIX. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 

As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes.  no 

No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms ; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the  wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and  spumes 

XX. 

So  petty  yet  so  spiteful!     All  along, 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it ; 

Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng : 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 

Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no  whit.  120 


Which,  while  I  forded, —  good  saints,  how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 


DARK  TOWER   CAME." 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard! 
—  It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh!  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 


169 


Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.     Vain  presage! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they  wage 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank  130 

Soil  to  a  plash  ?     Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank, 

Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage  — 


The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell  cirque. 

What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the  plain  to  choose? 

No  foot-print  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 
None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the  Turk 

Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 

XXIV. 

And  more  than  that  —  a  furlong  on  —  why,  there! 

What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that  wheel,  140 

Or  brake,  not  wheel  —  that  harrow  fit  to  reel 

Men's  bodies  out  like  silk?  with  all  the  air 

Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel. 

XXV. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with  ;  (so  a  fool  finds  mirth, 

Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 

Changes  and  off  he  goes!)  within  a  rood  — 

Bog,  clay,  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth.          150 

XXVI. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  coloured  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the  soil 's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils ; 

Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 

Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 


"CHILDE   ROLANDS 


And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end. 

Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  naught 
To  point  my  footstep  further!     At  the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend,  160 

Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon-penned 
That  brushed  my  cap  —  perchance  the  guide  I  sought. 

XXVIII. 

For,  looking  up.  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 
All  round  to  mountains  —  with  such  name  to  grace 

Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in  view. 

How  thus  they  had  surprised  me,  —  solve  it,  you! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 


Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 

Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows  when —  170 

In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended,  then, 

Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very  nick 

Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts  —  you  're  inside  the  den. 

XXX. 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once. 

This  was  the  place !  those  two  hills  on  the  right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight, 

While,  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain  .   .   .  Dunce, 

Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 

After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight!  180 

XXXI. 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself  ? 

The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart, 

Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.     The  tempest's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 

He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 


Not  see?  because  of  night  perhaps?  —  why,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that!  before  it  left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  thro1  a  cleft : 


A   GRAMMARIANS  FUNERAL.  \j\ 

The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay,  190 

Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay,  — 

"  Now  stab  and  end  the  creature  —  to  the  heft! " 

XXXIII. 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere!  it  tolled 

Increasing  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my  ears 

Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers,  — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 

Lost,  lost!  one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of  years. 


There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hill-sides,  met 

To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame  200 

For  one  more  picture!  in  a  sheet  of  flame 

I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And  yet 

Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 

And  blew  "  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came." 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.       ^^ 

f.su  <^5*^^^v_. 

.  SHORTLY   AFTER   THE   REVIVAL   OF   LEARNING   IN   EUROPE.//,  , 

/  i    /J  'KM' 

T    ET  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse,  Jjf  J 

iu    /;<-   1    -     Singing  together.  "-tCX.***^^ 

f  ^^  Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes, 
|t  Each  in  its  tether 

Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row! 
That  's  the  appropriate  country ;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser,  10 

Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 

On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 
^ —  Crowded  with  culture! 

All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels ; 


5 

I  /£/ 


Clouds  overcome  it ; 
•—-TTL    No!  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

yjfc*.*^ 


A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Circling  its  summit.  2O 

Thither  our  path  lies  ;  wind  we  up  the  heights : 

Wait  ye  the  warning  ? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's : 

He  's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders! 
This  is  our  master,  famgus-jcalm  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd!  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft 

Safe  from  the  weather!  30 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless  :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow  ? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon! 

My  dance  is  finished1?"?  40 

No,  that 's  the  world's  way ;  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity ; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage,  — 

Give!"  —  So,  he  gowned  him,  50 

Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page : 

Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain : 
"  Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain! "  /)       '  /?     / 

This  man  said  rather,  "  Actual  life  comes  next?  t^  //. /y-  i^-     ^ 

Patience  a  moment !  /  - 

Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text,  /  ^  ,    I/ ,  / 

Still  there  's  the  comment.  60 

Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I  'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it. 


A   GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 


173 


When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts  — 

Fancy  the  fabric  70 

Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick! 

(Here  's  the  town-gate  reached ;  there  's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus!) 
That  before  living  he  'd  learn  how  to  live  — 

No  end  to  learning :  , 

Earn  the  means  first  —  God  surely  will  contrive     ' 

Use  for  our  earning.  80 

Others  mistrust  and  say,  *'  But  time  escapes ! 

Live  now  or  never!  " 
He  said,  "  What 's  time?     Leave  Now  fopiogs  and  ap^.?!' 

Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then  :  deeper  drooped  his  head : 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead : 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"  Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest!"  —  not  he! 

(Caution  redoubled!  90 

Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly!) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain!  loo 

Was  it  not  great  ?  did  not  he  throw  on  God 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen  ? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing  —  heaven's  success 

FoundTof  eartrTrfailure :  no 

"Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?"     He  answered  "  Yes! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure!  "  f 

That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do,  ^    //      J/   C 


CLEON. 

Sees  it  and  does  it  : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred  's  soon  hit  : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit.  120 

That,  has  the  world  here  —  should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar  ; 
Still,  thro'  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hail's  business  —  let  it  be!  — 

Properly  based  Oun  —  130 

Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

DeadJrojnthe  waistdjQwn. 
Well,  here  's  the  plaTformTTiere's  the  proper  place  : 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews! 
Here  's  the  top-peak  ;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there  : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  butKnow  — 

Bury  this  man  therel  j^o 

Here  —  here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go!     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  : 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him  —  still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 


<vi    i2v>  }  Q 

- 


j>  •  *  *J  2  f  *,       ,  . 

f 

"  As  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have  said  "  — 


X  the  poet,  (from  the  sprinkled  isles, 
Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea. 

And  laugh^hehi  pride  when  the  light  wave  lisps  "  Greece  ")  — 
To  Protus  m  his  Tyranny:  much  health! 


CLEON. 


175 


They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even  now : 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee  speak. 
The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift ;  they  block  my  court  at  last 
And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 

Royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee ;  10 

And  one  white  she-slave,  from  the  group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves,  (like  the  chequer-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work  and  gift, 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of  doves) 
One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crqcus  vest 
Woven  of  sea-wools,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the  cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses  mine. 

Well-counselled,  king,  in  thy  munificence! 
For  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an  act  20 

Of  love  for  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy, 
Thy  recognition  of  the  use  of  life  : 
Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 
To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad  enough 
For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest. 
Thou,  in  the  daily  building  of  thy  tower,  — 
Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms  of  toil, 
Or  thro'  dim  lulls  of  unapparent  growth, 
Or  when  the  general  work,  'mid  good  acclaim, 
Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the  architect, —  30 

Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere  work's  sake : 
Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring  hope 
Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it, 
Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  building  hushed, 
Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to  the  East : 
The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower,  thou  sawest  the  sun. 
For  this,  I  promise  on  thy  festival 
To  pour  libation,  looking  o'er  the  sea, 
Making  this  slave  narrate  thy  fortunes,  speak 
Thy  great  words  and  describe  thy  royal  face  —  40 

Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives  the  most, 
Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm. 

Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets  me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard :  in  one  short  life 
I,  Cleon,  have  effected  all  those  things 
Thou  wonderingly  dost  enumerate. 
That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of  gold 
Is  mine,  and  also  mine  the  little  chant 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing  bark 
When,  lights  at  prow,  the  seamen  haul  their  net.  50 


1 76  CLEON". 

'  , 

The  image  of  the  sun-god  on  the  phare,  -  x 

Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  mine ; 

The  Precile,  o'er-storied  its  -whole  length, 

As  thou  didst  hear,  with  painting,  is  mine  too. 

I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 

And  woman  also,  not  observed  before ; 

And  I  have  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 

Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 

And  putting  us  to  ignorance  again. 

For  music,  —  why,  I  have  combined  the  moods,  60 

Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are  mine; 

Thus  much  the  people  know  and  recognize, 

Throughout  our  seventeen  islands.     Marvel  not! 

We  of  these  latter  days,  with  greater  mind      j , 

Than  our  forerunners,  since  more  composite,1, 

Look  not  so  great,  beside  their  simple  way, 

To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at  once, 

One  mind-point  and'  no  other  at  a  time, — 

Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of  us 

With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic  age,  70 

Great  in  his  way  —  not  ours,  nor  meant  for  ours  ; 

And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to  know : 

For,  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on  earth, 

This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here, 

Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  conceive, 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 

As  a  great  whole,  not  analyzed  to  parts, 

But  each  part  having  reference  to  all, —  *  *    /7  (J.  .£> 

How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced  complete, 

Endure  effacement  by  another  part?  80 

Was  the  thing  done?  —  then,  what's  to  do  again? 

See,  in  the  chequered  pavement  opposite, 

Suppose  the  artist  made  a  perfect  rhomb, 

And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trapezoid  — 

He  did  not  overlay  them,  superimpose 

The  new  upon  the  old  and  blot  it  out, 

But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 

Making  at  last  a  picture  ;  there  it  lies. 

So  first  the  perfect  separate  forms  were  made, 

The  portions  of  mankind  ;  and  after,  so,  90 

Occurred  the  combination  of  the  same. 

For  where  had  been  a  progress,  otherwise? 

Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single  men,  — 

In  such  a  synthesis  the  labour  ends. 

Now  mark  me  !  those  divine  men  of  old  time 

Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each  at  one  point 

The  outside  verge  that  rounds  our  faculty ; 

And  where  they  reached,  who  can  do  more  than  reach  ? 


CLEON. 


177 


It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 

At  some  one  point  the  inside  of  a  sphere.  100 

And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all  the  rest 
In  due  succession  :  but  the  finer  air 
Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously, 
Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 
The  whole  circumference  of  that  emptied  sphere, 
Fills  it  more  fully  than  the  water  did ; 
Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in  itself 
Resolved  into  a  subtler  element. 
And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere  first  full 
Up  to  the  visible  height  —  and  after,  void  ;  no 

Not  knowing  airs  more  hidden  properties. 
And  thus  our  soul,  misknown,  cries  out  to  Zeus 
To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  our  life  : 
Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to  grow  ? 
Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fiction  out, 
That  he  or  other  god  descended  here 
And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultaneously 
What,  in  its  nature,  never  can  be  shown 
Piecemeal  or  in  succession,:  showed,  I  say, 
The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative  I2O 

Of  all  his  children  from  the  birth  of  time, 
His  instruments  for  all  appointed  work. 
I  now  go  on  to  image,  —  might  we  hear 
The  judgment  which  should  give  the  due  to  each, 
Show  where  the  labour  lay  and  where  the  ease, 
And  prove  Zeus'  self,  the  latent  everywhere ! 
This  is  a  dream  :  —  but  no  dream,  let  us  hope, 
That  years  and  days,  the  summers  and  the  springs, 
Follow  each  other  with  unwaning  powers. 
The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine,  are  richer  far  130 

Thro1  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock ; 
The  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe  ; 
The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet ; 
The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowers ; 
That  young  and  tender  crescent  moon,  thy  slave, 
Sleeping  above  her  robe  as  buoyed  by  clouds, 
Refines  upon  the  women  of  my  youth. 
What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates? 
I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer,  no  — 
Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,  no  —  nor  carved  140 

And  painted  men  like  Phidias  and  his  friend^  " 

I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point. 
But  I  have  entered  into  sympathy  // 

With  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul,     ' 
Who,  separate,  ignored  each  other's  art. 
Say,  T?  it  nothing  that  I  know  them  all? 


178 


CLEON-. 

The  wild  flower  was  the  larger ;  I  have  dashed 

Rose-blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its  cup's 

Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit, 

And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so  large :  150 

I  stand  myself.     Refer  this  to  the  gods 

Whose  gift  alone  it  is!  which,  shall  I  dare 

(All  pride  apart)  upon  the  absurd  pretext 

That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my  hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate  ? 

It  might  have  fallen  to  another's  hand :  what  then  ? 

I  pass  too  surely :  let  at  least  truth  stay! 

And  next,  of  what  thou  followest  on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me  as  I  declare,  O  king. 
My  works  in  all  these  varicoloured  kinds,  160 

So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men  — 
Thou  askest,  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts) 
I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 
The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life  ? 
Inquiring  thence  how,  now  life  closeth  up, 
I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right  hand  : 
Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  dost  thyself 
The  fortunate  of  men?     "For"  (writest  thou) 
"  Thou  leavest  much  behind,  while  I  leave  naught.  / 
Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  men  shall  sing,  170 

The  pictures  men  shall  study ;  while  my  life, 
Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy, 
Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and  arm, 
Is  lost  indeed ;  since,  what  survives  myself? 
The  brazen  statue  to  o'erlook  my  grave, 
Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 
And  that  —  some  supple  courtier  of  my  heir 
Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm,  perhaps 
To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it  down. 
I  go  then :  triumph  thou,  who  dost  not  go  ! "  180 

Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my  whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to  muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in  chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as  knowledge  grows? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection  hid, 
Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after-time? 
If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 
Ere  aught  had  been  recorded,  nay  perceived, 
Thou,  with  the  light  now  in  thee,  couldst  have  looked 
On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm  to  bird,  190 

Ere  man,  her  last,  appeared  upon  the  stage  — 
Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect,  and  deduced 


CLEOfr. 


179 


The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 

Conceding  which,  —  had  Zeus  then  questioned  thee 

"  Shall  I  go  on  a  step,  improve  on  this, 

Do  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is  done  ? " 

Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "  Ay,  by  making  each 

Grow  conscious  in  himself — by  that  alone. 

All  's  perfect  else  :  the  shell  sucks  fast  the  rock, 

The  fish  strikes  thro1  the  sea,  the  snake  both  swims  200 

And  slides,  forth  range  the  beasts,  the  birds  take  flight, 

Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  further  go  — 

And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life  is  put 

Like  fire  from  off  thy  finger  into  each, 

So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same. 

But  't  is  pure  fire,  and  they  mere  matter  are : 

It  has  them,  not  they  it ;  and  so  I  choose 

For  man,  thy  last  premeditated  work 

(If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  the  scheme) 

That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart  from  both,  210 

A  quality  arise  within  his  soul, 

Which,  intro-active,  made  to  supervise 

And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself, 

And  so  be  happy."     Man  might  live  at  first 

The  animal  life :  but  is  there  nothing  more  ? 

In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 

How  he  lives ;  and,  the  more  he  gets  to  know 

Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities,  / 

The  more  joy-giving  will  his  life  become. 

Thus  man,  who  hath  this  quality,  is  best.  220 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasonably  said  : 
"Let  progress  end  at  once,  —  man  make  no  step 
Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better  beast, 
Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense  of  sense!" 
In  man  there  's  failure,  only  since  he  left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of  life. 
We  called  it  an  advance,  the  rendering  plain 
Man's  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of  man's  life, 
And,  by  new  lore  so  added  to  the  old, 

Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's  head.  230 

This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of  the  soul, 
Which  whole  surrounding  flats  of  natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to  ; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.     But  alas, 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish  there! 
For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('t  is  no  dream  — 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else  perceived) 
That  there 's  a  world  of  capability          / 


CLEON. 

For  joy  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us,         \        240 

Inviting  us  ;  and  still  the  soul  craves  all, 

And  still  the  flesh  replies,  "  Take  no  jot  more 

Than  ere  thou  clombst  the  tower  to  look  abroad! 

Nay,  so  much  less  as  that  fatigue  has  brought 

Deduction  to  it."     We  struggle,  fain  to  enlarge 

Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 

Increase  our  power,  supply  fresh  oil  to  life, 

Repair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness  :  no, 

It  skills  not!  life  's  inadequate  to  joy, 

As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to  take.  250 

They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden  here 

Wherein  a  Naiad  sends  the  water-bow 

Thin  from  her  tube ;  she  smiles  to  see  it  rise. 

What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 

From  that  great  river  which  the  hills  shut  up, 

And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take  the  same  ? 

The  artificer  has  given  her  one  small  tube 

Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange  —  what  boots 

To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if  she  could  ? 

She  can  not  lift  beyond  her  first  thin  thread :  260 

And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's  joy 

While  he  sees  (loci's.      Is  it.  for  Zeus  to  boast 

"See,  man.  how" happy  I  live,  and  despair  — 

That  I  may  be  still  happier  —  for  thy  use!" 

If  this  were  so,  we  could  not  thank  our  lord, 

As  hearts  beat  on  to  doing :  \  is  not  so  — 

Malice  it  is  not.     Is  it  carelessness? 

Still,  no.     If  care  —  where  is  the  sign?     I  ask, 

And  get  no  answer,  and  agree  in  sum, 

O  king,  with  thy  profound  discouragement,  270 

Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the  more. 

Most  progress  is  most  failure  :  thou  sayest  well. 

The  last  point  now  :  —  thou  dost  except  a  case  — 
Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one 
With  artist-gifts  —  to  such  a  man  as  I 
Who  leave  behind  me  living  works  indeed ; 
For,  such  a  poem,  such  a  painting  lives. 
What?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a  word, 
Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what  joy  is 
(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes  than  thine)        280 
With  feeling  joy?  confound  the  knowing  how 
And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 
With  actually  living?  —  Otherwise 
Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the  king? 
Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 
How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair,  wise,  can  act  — 


CLEOtT. 

Is  this  as  tho1  I  acted?  if  I  paint, 

Carve  the  young  Phoebus,  am  I  therefore  young? 

Methinks  I  'm  older  that  I  bowed  myself 

The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught  me  art!  290 

Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to  prove 

How  all  this  beauty  might  be  enjoyed,  is  more : 

But,  knowing  naught,  to  enjoy  is  something  too. 

Yon  rower,  with  the  moulded  muscles  there, 

Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 

I  can  write  love-odes:,  thy  fair  slave  's  an  ode. 

I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too  gray 

For  being  beloved :  she  turns  to  that  young  man, 

The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 

I  know  the  joy  of  kingship :  well,  thou  art  king!  300 

"  But,11  sayest  thou  —  (and  I  marvel,  I  repeat, 

To  find  thee  trip  on  such  a  mere  word)  "  what 

Thou  writest,  paintest,  stays ;  that  does  not  die : 

Sappho  survives,  because  we  sing  her  songs, 

And  yCschylus,  because  we  read  his  plays!" 

Why,  if  they  live  still,  let  them  come  and  take 

Thy  slave  in  my  despite,  drink  from  thy  cup, 

Speak  in  my  place.     Thou  diest  while  I  survive? 

Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier  still, 

In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of  joy  310 

Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensified 

By  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged,  more  keen ; 

While  every  day  my  hairs  fall  more  and  more, 

My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years  increase  — 

The  horror  quickening  still  from  year  to  year, 

The  consummation  coming  past  escape, 

When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet  least  enjoy  — 

When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove  my  worth, 

Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in  men's  mouths, 

Alive  still,  in  the  praise  of  such  as  thou,  320 

I,  I  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man, 

The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  overmuch, 

Sleep  in  my  urn.     It  is  so  horrible,  L 

I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need  J 

Some  future  state  revealed  to  us  by  Zeus, 

Unlimited  in  capability 

For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 

—  To  seek  which,  the  jj>Vj^)unger  forces  us  : 

That,  stung  by  straitness  of  our  life,  made  strait 

On  purpose  to  make  prized  the  life  at  large—  330 

Freed  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we  call  death, 

We  burst  there  as  the  worm  into  the  fly, 

Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  his  wings.     But  no! 

Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it ;  and  alas, 

He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possible! 


INSTANS  TYRANNUS. 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die, 
Glad  for  what  was!     Farewell.     And  for  the  rest, 
I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 
Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of  thine 
To  one  called  Paulus  ;  we  have  heard  his  fame  340 

Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with  him  — 
I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to  know. 
Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian  Jew 
As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circumcised, 
Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  us  ? 
Thou  wrongest  our  philosophy,  O  king, 
In  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one, 
As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all ! 
He  writeth,  doth  he  ?  well,  and  he  may  write. 
Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars!  certain  slaves  350 

Who  touched  on  this  same  isle,  preached  him  and  Christ ; 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man. 


INSTANS  TYRANNUS. 

i. 

OF  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

II. 

I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course  — 

For,  what  was  his  force? 

I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 

And  persistence  of  hate  ; 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  not  curse, 

As  his  lot  might  be  worse.  10 

ill. 

"Were  the  object  less  mean,  would  he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand! 

For  obscurity  helps  him,  and  blots 

The  hole  where  he  squats." 

So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 

All  in  vain!     Gold  and  jewels  I  threw, 


IWSTANS  TYRANNUS.  183 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue ; 

I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh. 

Hid  in  roses  my  mesh,  20 

Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon 's  best  spilth : 

Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 

IV. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  did  I  press : 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize! 

No  such  booty  as  these. 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me,  in  person  or  pelf, 

What  he  owes  me  himself !  30 

No :  I  could  not  but  smile  thro'  my  chafe : 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 

As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 

—  Thro'  minuteness,  to  wit. 


Then  a  humour  more  great  took  its  place 

At  the  thought  of  his  face  : 

The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 

Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain.  40 

And,  "  no !  "  I  admonished  myself, 

"  Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf, 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat? 

The  gravamen  's  in  that ! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot, 

Would  admire  that  I  stand  in  debate! 

But  the  small  turns  the  great 

If  it  vexes  you,  —  that  is  the  thing! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king?  50 

Tho'  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 

Toad  or  rat,  't  is  well  worth! " 

VI. 

So,  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  with  never  a  break 

Ran  my  fires  for  his  sake ; 

Overhead,  did  my  thunder  combine 


EPISTLE. 

With  my  under-ground  mine  : 

Till  I  looked  from  my  labour  content 

To  enjoy  the  event.  60 

vn. 

When  sudden  .  .  .  how  think  ye,  the  end? 

Did  I  say  "without  friend?" 

Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest! 

Do  you  see!     Just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  70 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and  prayed! 

—  So,  /  was  afraid! 


AN   EPISTLE. 

CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE   MEDICAL   EXPERIENCE   OF   KARSHISH,  THE 
ARAB   PHYSICIAN. 

TV'ARSHISH,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 

J^.  The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 

(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 

Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 

To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 

That  puff  of  vapour  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

—  To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 

Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast, 

Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 

Befall  the  flesh  thro'  too  much  stress  and  strain,  10 

Whereby  the  wily  vapour  fain  would  slip 

Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term, — 

And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 

To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such  :  — 

The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home 

Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with  peace) 

Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone  —  rarer  still, 

One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 

(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 

And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time.  20 


AN  EPISTLE. 


I85 


My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho  : 
Thus  I  resume.     Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labour  unrepaid? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumours  of  a  marching  hitherward  : 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear  : 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls  :  30 

I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy  ; 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.     Thou  laughest  here! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip  40 

And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say; 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of:  there  's  a  spider  here 
Weaves  no  web,  watches  on'  the  ledge  of  tombs, 
Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back  ; 
Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .   .  but  who  knows  his  mind, 
The  Syrian  run-a-gate  I  "trust  this  to? 

His  service  payeth  me  a/sublimate  50 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 
Best  wait  :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 
These  set  in  order  my  experiences, 
Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all  — 
Of*I  'might  add,  Judaea's  gum-tragacanth 
Scare*  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 
Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 
In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-disease 
Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy  : 
Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar  —  60 

But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 


Yet  stay!  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price  — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  tho'  he  steal  ? 
1  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang  ! 


EPISTLE. 

For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness  —  or  else 

The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him  — 

His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  't  is  worth.  70 

So,  pardon  if —  (lest  presently  I  lose, 

In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand, 

The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 

I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind. 

Almost  in  sight  —  for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth  ? 

The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 

Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 

Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all! 

'T  is  but  a  case  of  mania :  subinduced 

By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point  80 

Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days 
When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcisation,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me  and  which  't  were  well  to  know, 
The  evil  thing,  out-breaking  all  at  once, 
Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed, — 
But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide, 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 
Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall  90 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 
(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subsequent 
Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 
The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 
Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 
That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 
And  first  —  the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 
That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 

—  That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 

By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe  :  loo 

—  'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 
"  Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 

Not  so  this  figment !  —  not,  that  such  a  fume, 

Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 

Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 

As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all! 

For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 

The  man  —  it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Je\v. 

Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 

The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable,  I  Id 

As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 

As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 

Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 

And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 


AN  EPISTLE.  jg/ 

And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep! 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all? 

This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 

Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 

To  bear  my  inquisition.     While  they  spoke,  120 

Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow,  —  told  the  case,  — 

He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 

But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 

Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed  :  and  yet  no  fool. 

And  that 's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 

Look  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 

Should  find  a  treasure,  —  can  he  use  the  same 

With  straitened  habits  and  with  tastes  starved  small, 

And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things,  130 

That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand, 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth  — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times  ? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  ar  ^ne  : 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  ia\v. 

So  here  —  we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say, 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty —  140 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven : 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds  — 

'T  is  one!     Then  take  it  on  the  other  side, 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact,  —  he  will  gaze  rapt  150 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness, 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results ; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death,  —  why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness,  1 60 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 


AN  EPISTLE. 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep, 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear. 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.     Demand 

The  reason  why  —  "  't  is  but  a  word,"  object  — 

''  A  gesture  "—  he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind?)  when,  being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite  170 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  both 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trirle  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life  — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb  1 80 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 

Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet  — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life : 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across. 

And  not  along,  this  black  thread  thro1  the  blaze  — 

" It  should  be "  balked  by  "here  it  can  not  be."      .  190 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 

His  sage  that  bade  him  "  Rise"  and  he  did  rise. 

Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  within 

Admonishes  :  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread ; 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows  200 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will  — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth : 

He  will  live,  nay.  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please.  210 


AN  EPISTLE. 


189 


He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be, 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do : 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbour  the  real  ground, 

His  own  conviction  ?     Ardent  as  he  is  — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 

"  Be  it  as  God  please"  reassureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should :  220 

"  How,  beast,"  said  I,  "  this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once  ? " 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds  —  how  say  I  ?  flowers  of  the  field  — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools  230 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb  : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin  — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed : 

As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happed  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance,  240 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure  —  and  I  must  hold  my  peace! 

Thou  wilt  object  —  Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits  ? 
Alas !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused,  —  our  learning's  fate,  —  of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule  250 

And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 
To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 
Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 
Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people  —  that 's  their  wont! 
On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 


I90  AN  EPISTLE. 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help  — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake?     That 's  their  way! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies :  260 

But  take  one,  tho1  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee, 

In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 

(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 

Is  stark  mad ;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says  ? 

Perhaps  not :  tho'  in  writing  to  a  leech 

'T  is  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 

This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then. 

As  —  God  forgive  me !  who  but  God  himself, 

Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 

That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile.  270 

— 'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived, 

Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house, 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by.  for  aught  I  know,,       » 

And  yet  was  .  .  .  what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith  —  but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith  ? 

Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark? 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool  280 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.     It  is  strange! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case, 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth! 
Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 
Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 
And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 
Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 

Had  wrought  upon  me  first.     I  met  him  thus  :  290 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.     Out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold  and  menacing : 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.     So  we  met 
In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 
The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 
Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 
To  this  ambiguous  Syrian  :  he  may  lose, 

Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good.  300 

Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 
For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine ; 
Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell! 


CALIBAN  UPON1  SETEBOS. 

The  very  God!  think,  Abib  ;  dost  thou  think? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too  — 
So,  thro1  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  mayst  conceive  of  mine  : 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee!  " 
The  madman  saith  He  said.  so  :  it  is  strange. 

-. 


CALIBAN  UPON   SETEBOS  **^ 


OR, 


QW*"      '       ^J^ 
,/*       *~  &    2-J  NATURAL   THEOLOGY   IN   THE   ISLAND. 

r  $;  0     '  n  -K  '     i^-  ^ 

*'  Thou  thoughtest  that  I  was  altogether  such  a  one  as  thyself." 

/,     -\v<^  ' 

['"1  T  7ILL  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best,  t-  f 

VV    Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire,          fa.*-"- 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin,         j/ 
And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush,  L^ts^st.-),* 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course,  & 


. 
t-^^t.       Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh : 

And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion-plant.'    °*"/X£     AJ*  * 

* 


Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its  eye,          ^*/^^-t/vl^/     /v*>^* 
^>    >    "    Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard/       **  0,  O"" 
j  And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside,  iq,. 

And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch,  —  *#^AJ-£- 

He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 

And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web,  ***«*>* 

(Meshes  of  fire,  some  great  fish  breaks  at  times)          JL^.^..  *u- . 

And  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he  please, 

Touching  that  other,  whom  his  dam  called  God. 

Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes —  ha, 

Could  He  but  know !  and  time  to  vex  is  now, 

When  talk  is  safer  than  in  winter-time. 

Moreover  Prosper  and  Miranda  sleep  2O 

In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their  task, 

And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and  gibe, 

Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into  speech.] 

Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos! 
'Thinketh,  He  dwelleth  i'  the  cold  o'  the  moon. 

'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to  match, 
But  not  the  stars  ;  the  stars  came  otherwise ; 


CALIBAN    UPON  SETEBOS. 


Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such  as  that  :     -/.^    - 

Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows  thereon, 

And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends  the  same.     7  ~jf(t^rA  30 

'Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease  : 

He  hated  that  He  can  not  change  His  cold,  \ 

Nor  cure  its  ache.     'Hath  spied  an  icy_fish 

That  longed  to  'scape  the  rock-stream  where  she  lived, 

And  thaw  herself  within  the  lukewarm  brine 

O'  the  lazy  sea  her  stream  thrusts  far  amid, 

A  crystal  spike  'twixt  two  warm  walls  of  wave  ; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 

At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her  life, 

(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred  o'  the  sun)  40 

Flounced  back  from  bliss  she  was  not  born  to  breathe, 

And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 

Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike  :  so  He. 

'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun,  this  isle, 

Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and  creeping  thing. 

Yon  otter,  sleek-wet,  black,  lithe  as  a  leech  ; 

Yon  au]^  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of  foam,   *-    $  t*.  £uv« 

That  floats  and  feeds  ;  a  certain  badger  brown. 

He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that  slant  white-wedge  eye         I^-wviv^ 

By  moonlight  ;  and  the  pie.  with  the  long  tongue     -  ,  ,  .          50 

That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a  worm,  -_  /  (l  t  .  w  ,  .  ('  '•' 

And  says  a  plain-  word  when  she  finds  her  prize, 

But  will  not  eat  the  ants  ;  the  ants  themselves 

That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled  stalks 

About  their  hole  —  He  made  all  these  and  more, 

Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite  :  how  else  ? 

He  could  not.  Himself,  make  a  second  self 

To  be  His  mate  :  as  well  have  made  Himself: 

He  would  not  make  what  He  mislikes  or  slights, 

An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His  pains  ;  60 

But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness  or  sport. 

Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  in  a  manner,  be  — 

Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 

Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while, 

Things  He  admires  and  mocks  too,  —  that  is  it! 

Because,  so  brave,  so  better  tho'  they  be, 

It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 

Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  into  mash, 

Add  honeycomb  and  pods,'  Tliave  perceived, 

Which  bite  like  finches  when  they  bill  and  kiss,  —  70 

Then,  when  froth  rises  bladdery,  drink  up  all, 

Quick,  quick,  till  maggots  scamper  thro'  my  brain; 

Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the  seeded  thyme, 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS. 


193 


And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a  bird. 

Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 

I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of  clay : 

Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch  my  Caliban 

Able  to  fly?  —  for,  there,  see,  he  hath  wings,  [ 

And  great  comb  like  the  hoopoe's  to  admire,  j 

And  there,  a  sting  to  do  his  foes  offence,  80 

There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to  live.  "*  J-/^ 

Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  the  horns 

pf  grigs  high  up  that  make  the  merry  din,  Cs*\*>&**i  t**t 

Saucy  "thro'  their  veined  wings,  and  mind  me  not. 

In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle  clay, 

And  he  lay  stupid-like,  —  why,  I  should  laugh  ; 

And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to  weep, 

Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 

Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  g/uw  again,  — 

Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  nii^ht  take  or  else 

Not  take  my  fancy :  I  might  hear  his  cry, 

And  give  the  mankin  three  sound  legs  for  one, 

Or  pluck  the  otner  orf,  leave  him  like  an  egg, 

And  lessoned  he  was  mine  and  merely  clay. 

Were  this  no  pleasure,  lying  in  the  thyme, 

Drinking  the  mash,  with  brain  become  alive,  I 

Making  and  marring  clay  at  will  ?     So  He. 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him 

Nor  kind,  nor  cruel :  He  is  strong  and  Lord,  £,  ^f^JI  J   l*-"i  ~  VV*1 

'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs  106 

That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea ; 

'Let  twenty  pass,  and  stone  the  twenty-first, 

Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so. 

'Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts  purple  spots 

Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted  off;  >    4—    * 

'Say,  this  bruised  fellow  shall  receive  a  worm, 

And  two  worms  he  whose  nippers  end  in  red :  r 

As  it  likes  me  each  time,  I  do :  so  He. 

Well  then,  'supposeth  He  is  good  i'  the  main,\ 

Placable  if  His  mind  and  ways  were  guessed,  no 

But  rougher  than  His  handiwork,  be  sure! 

Oh,  He  hath  made  things  worthier  than  Himself, 

And^envjeth  thatT  so  helped,  such  things  do  more 

Than  He  who  made  thenx!     What  consoles  but  this?  fa  \^ 

That  they,  unless  thro'  Him,  do  naught  at  all, 

And  must  submit :  what  other  use  in  things? 

'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder-joint 

That,  blown  through,  gives  exact  the  scream  o'  the  jay , 

When  from  her  wing  you  twitch  the  feathers  blue  : 


I94  CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS. 

Sound  this,  and  little  birds  that  hate  the  jay  120 

Flock  within  stone's  throw,  glad  their  foe  is  hurt: 

Put  case  such  pipe  could  prattle  and  boast  forsooth 

"  I  catch  the  birds,  I  am  the  crafty  thing, 

I  make  the  cry  my  maker  can  not  make 

With  his  great  round  mouth ;  he  must  blow  thro' 

Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot?     So  He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and  ill  at  ease? 
Aha,  that  is  a  question!     Ask,  for  that, 
What  knows,  —  the  something  over  Setebos 
That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found  and  fought, 
Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  nothing,  perchance. 
There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er  His  head,        • .    j 
Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy  nor  grief,  1    I 

Since  both  derive  from  weakness  in  some  way.       \\- 
I  joy  because  the  quails"colfie~pvvould  not  joy 
Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have  a  mind : 
This  Quiet,  all  it  hath  a  mind  to.  doth. 
'Esteemeth  stars  the  outposts  of  its  couch. 
But  never  spends  much  thought  nor  care  that  way. 
It  may  look  up,  work  up.  —  the  worse  for  those 
It  works  on!     'Careth  but  for  Setebos 
The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 
Who,  making  Himself  feared  throMvhat  He  does, 
Looks  up.  first,  and  perceives  he  can  not  soar 
To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  life ; 
Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of  very  spite 
Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon  real. 
These  good  things  to  match  those  as  hips  do  grapes 
'T  is  solace  making  baubles,  ay,  and  sport. 

Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at  his  books  150 

Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  oftHe  isle : 
Vexed,  'stitched  a  book  of  broad  leaves,  arrow-shaped, 
Wrote  thereon,  he  knows  what,  prodigious  words  ; 
Has  peeled  a  wand  and  called  it  by  a  name ; 
^         Weareth  at  whiles  for  an  enchanter's  robe 

The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  oncelot ;  f-n^..i>w  ••    ft*  4! 

And  hath  an  ounce  sleeker"  than  youngling  mole, 

A  four-legged  serpent  he  makes  cower  and  couch, 

Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and  mind  his  eye, 

And  saith  she  is  Miranda  and  my  wife:  160 

'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bilJLcrane_ 

He  bids  go  wade  for  fish  arid  straight  disgorge ; 

Also  a  sea-beast,  lumpish,  which  he  snared, 

Blinded  the  eyes  of,  and  brought  somewhat  tame, 

And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens  the  drudge 

In  a  hole  o'  the  rock,  and  calls  him  Caliban  ; 


170 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS. 

A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and  bites. 
'Plays  thus  at  being  Prosper  in  a  way, 
Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes :  so  He. 

His  dam  held  that  the  Quiet  made  all  things 

Which  Setebos  vexed  only  :  'holds  not  so. 

Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weakness  He  might  vex. 

Had  He  meant  other,  while  His  hand  was  in, 

Why  not  make  horny  eyes  no  thorn  could  prick, 

Or  plate  my  scalp  with  bone  against  the  snow, 

Or  overscale  my  flesh  'neath  joint  and  joint, 

Like  an  ore's  armour?     Ay,  —  so  spoil  His 

He  is  the  One  now  :  only  He  doth  all. 

'  Saith,  He  may  like,  perchance,  what  profits  Him. 

Ay,  himself  loves  what  does  him  good  ;  but  why?  180 

'Gets  good  no  otherwise.     This  blinded  beast 

Loves  whoso  places  flesh-meat  on  his  nose, 

But,  had  he  eyes,  would  want  no  help,  but  hate 

Or  love,  just  as  it  liked  him :  He  hath  eyes. 

Also  it  pleaseth  Setebos  to  work, 

Use  all  His  hands,  and  exercise  much  craft,  /*    j* 

By  no  means  for  the  love  of  what  is  worked. 

'Tasteth,  himself,  no  finer  good  i'  the  world 

When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  summer-time,  i^L^tM--^' 

And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches  not  much,  190 

Than  trying  what  to  do  with  wit  and  strength. 

'Falls  to  make  something :  'piled  yon  pile  of  turfs, 

And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares  of  soft  white  chalk, 

And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon  on  each, 

And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of  tree, 

And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's  skull  a-top, 

Found  dead  i'  the  woods,  too  hard  for  one  to  kill.      -> -a.  /,_  -^ 

No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's  sole  sake ; 

'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again :  so  He. 

'Saith  He  is  terrible:  watch  His  feats  in  proof!  200 

One  hurricane  will  spoil  six  good  months'  hope. 

He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know. 

JusTas~TT5~ftfv6'urs  Prosper,  who  knows  why? 

ScTTrTs,  all  the  sameyasTwelf  I  find.  »»  ^  "i  "    , 

'Wove  wattles  half  the  winter,  fenced  them  firm    /tr-vA-o 

With  stone  and  stake  to  stop  she-tortoises  / 

Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs  here  :  well,  one  wave, 

Feeling  the  foot  of  Him  upon  its  neck, 

Gaped  as  a  snake  does,  lolled  out  its  large  tongue, 

And  licked  the  whole  labour  flat :  so  much  for  spite!       210 

'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder  it  lies) 


196 


220 


CALIBAN   UPON  SETEBOS. 

Where,  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept  i'  the  shade : 

Often  they  scatter  sparkles  :  there  is  force ! 

'Dug  up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied  once 

And  turned  to  stone,  shut  up  inside  a  stone. 

Please  Him  and  hinder  this?  —  What  Prosper  does? 

Aha,  if  he  would  tell  me  how.     Not  He! 

There  is  the  sport :  discover  how  or  die! 

All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o'  the  isle 

Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run  up  trees ; 

Those  at  His  mercy,  —  why,  they  please  Him  most 

When  .  .  .  when  .   .  .  well,  never  try  the  same  way  twice! 

Repeat  what  act  has  pleased,  He  may  grow  wroth. 

You  must  not  know  His  ways,  and  play  Him  off, 

Sure  of  the  issue.     'Doth  the  like  himself: 

'Spareth  a  squirrel  that  it  nothing  fears 

But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath  my  thumb, 

And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in  defence : 

'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 

Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 

For  fright  at  my  approach  :  the  two  ways  please. 

But  what  would  move  my  choler  more  than  this, 

That  either  creature  counted  on  its  life 

To-morrow,  next  day  and  all  days  to  come, 

Saying  forsooth  in  the  inmost  of  its  heart, 

"  Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 

And  otherwise  with  such  another  brute, 

So  must  he  do  henceforth  and  always."     Ay? 

'Would  teach  the  reasoning  couple  what  "  must  "  means!  \ 

'Doth  as  he  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord?     So  He.  v    240 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue  thus, 

And  we  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of  Him 

So  long  as  He  lives,  keeps  His  strength  :  no  change, 

If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no  new  world 

To  please  Him  more,  so  leave  off  watching  this, — 

If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's  self 

Some  strange  day, —  or,  suppose,  grow  into  it 

As  grubs  grow  butterflies :  else,  here  are  we, 

And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at  all. 


'Believeth  with  the  life  the  pain  shall  stop. 

His  dam  held  different,  that  after  death 

He  both  plagued  enemies  and  feasted  friends  s 

Idly!     He  cloth  His  worst  in  this  our  life,        1 

Giving  just  respitejest  we  diethro'  pain, 

Saving  last  p~ain  for  worsTp=^with  which,  an  end., 

Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His  ire 

Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy.     'Sees,  himself, 


250 


CALIBAN    UPON   SETEBOS. 


197 


Yonder  two  flies,  with  purple  films  and  pink, 

Bask  on  the  pompion-bell  above :  kills  both. 

'Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll  their  ball  260 

On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their  lives  : 

'Moves  them  the  stick  away  they  strive  to  clear. 

Even  so,  'would  have  Him  misconceive,  suppose 
This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no  less, 
And  always,  above  all  else,  envies  Him ; 
i  -Wherefore  he  mainly  dances  on  dark  nights, 
g^  Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under  holes  to  laugh, 
^  And  never  speaks  his  mind  save  housed  as  now : 
,  Outside,  'groans,  curses.     If  He  caught  me  here, 
^  O'erheard  this  speech,  and  asked  "What  chucklest  at?"         270 
•^'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger  off, 

•  Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn  the  best, 
^Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree, 
v  vOr  push  my  tame  beast  for  the  jarc  to  taste 

^While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a  song 
^  And  sung  it,  "What  I  hate,  be  consecrate 
i? j    ^  To  celebrate  Thee  and  Thy  state,  no  mate 

^  For  Thee ;  what  see  for  envy  in  poor  me  ?  "          .. 
...  Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  sometimes  mend,  / 
^  Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured  with  slime, 
"X  That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the  Quiet  catch 
And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  He 
Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die. 
J 

-    [What,  what?     A  curtain  o'er  the  world  at  once! 
J   J.J   Crickets  stop  hissing ;  not  a  bird  —  or,  yes, 

There  scuds  His  raven  that  hath  told  Him  all! 

It  was  fool's  play^jhis  prattling!     Ha!     The  wind 

Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,"  death's  house  o'  the  move, 

And  fast  invading  fires  begin!     White  blaze  — 

A  tree's  head  snaps  —  and  there,  there,  there,  there,  there,      290 

His  thunder  follows!     Fool  to  gibe  at  Him! 

Lo!     'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos! 

'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  thro'  his  upper  lip, 

Will  let  those  quails  fly,  will  not  eat  this  month 

One  little  mess  of  whelks,  so  he  may  'scape!]     <L/u-e£C  - 


r  > 


198 


SAUL. 

SAUL. 

i. 


SAID  Abner,  "  At  last  thou  art  come!     Ere  I  tell,  ere  thou  speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  ms  well! "     Then  I  wished  it,  and  did  kiss 

his  cheek. 

And  he,  "  Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for  thy  countenance  sent, 
Neither  drunlyen  nor  eat/in  have  we  ; /nor  until,  from  his  tent 
Thou  return/with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King/iveth  yet, 
Shall  our  lip/with  the  hbnfey  be  bright,/with  the  water  be  wet. 
For  ouyof/the  black/ mid-tent's  si^nce,  a  space^f  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy' servants,  of  prayer  nor  of  praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  their  strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back  upon  life.        10 


"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved!     God's  child  with  his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  and  blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild  heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert!  " 

III. 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my  feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.     The  tent  was  unlooped  ; 
I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I  stooped ; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  withered  and  gone, 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my  way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.     Then  once  more  I  prayed,  20 
And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and  was  not  afraid 
But  spoke.  "  Here  is  David,  thy  servant ! "     And  no  voice  replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness;  but  soon  I  descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness  —  the  vast,  the  upright 
Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion :  and  slow  into  sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  thro'  the  tent  roof,  showed  Saul. 

rv. 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched  out  wide 
On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that  goes  to  each  side ; 
He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught  in  his  pangs         30 
And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent  all  heavily  hangs, 
Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 
With  the  spring-time,  —  so  agonized  Saul,  drear  and  stark,  blind  and 
dumb. 


SAUL. 


v. 


199 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp,  —  took  off  the  lilies  we  twine  round  its  chords 
Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide  —  those  sunbeams  like 

swords ! 

And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one  after  one, 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they  have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within  the  stream's  bed ; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows  star  40 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us,  —  so  blue  and  so  far ! 

VI. 

—  Then  the  tune,*  for  which  quails  Ion  the  cornland  will  each/leave  his 

mate  / 

To  fly  after  the  player ;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another :  and  then,  what  has  weight 
To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand  house  — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and  half  mouse  ! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and  our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family  here. 

VII. 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,  their  wine-song,  when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and  great  hearts 

expand  50 

And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life.  —  And  then,  the  last 

song 

When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey — "Bear,  bear  him  along 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets!     Are  balm-seeds  not 

'here 

To  console  us?     The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on  the  bier. 
"Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother!"  —  And  then,  the  glad 

chaunt 
Of  the  marriage,  —  first   go  the   young  maidens,  next,  she  whom  we 

vaunt 

As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling.  —  And  then,  the  great  march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress  an  arch 
Naught  can  break;   who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends?  —  Then,  the 

chorus  intoned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned.  60 

But  I  stopped  here :  for  here  in  the  darkness  Saul  groaned. 

VIII. 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened  apart ; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered:   and  sparkles  'gan 
dart 


200  SAUL. 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban,  at  once  with  a  start 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head :  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there  erect. 
And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  unchecked, 
As  I  sang, — 

IX. 

<•  Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigour!     No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock,  70 

The  sjrangrending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plungeTin  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living !  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  for  ever  in  joy! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword  thou  didst 

guard  80 

When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious  reward? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear  her  faint  tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  '  Let  one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  thro'  a  lifetime,  and  all  was  for  best ! ' 
Then  they  sung  thro'  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not  much,  but  the 

rest. 

And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  working  whence  grew 
Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the  spirit  strained  true : 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood  — that  boyhood  of  wonder  and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's  scope,  —  90 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch  ;  a  people  is  thine : 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head  combine! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage  (like  the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labour  and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crowning  them,  —  all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature  —  King  Saul!  " 

x. 

And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit',  —  heart,  hand,  harp  and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for  —  as  when,  dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  thro'  its  array,  100 

And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot  —  "  Saul!"  cried  I,  and  stopped. 
And  waited   the  thing  that  should   follow.     Then   Saul,  who   hung 
propped 


SAUL.  2O  I 

By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to  the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held  (he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad  bust  oi 

stone 
A   year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate,  —  leaves  grasp  of  the 

sheet  ? 

Fold  on  fold^all  at  once'it  crowds  thunderously  down/to  his  feet, 
And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untold:  110 

Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow  and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  :twixt  you  and  the  tempest  —  all  hail,  there  they 

are! 

—  Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on  his  crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardours  of  summer.     One  long  shudder  thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and  aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained?      All  to  traverse    'twixt   hope  and 

despair. 

Death  was  past,/life  not  come  :  /so  he  waited./  Awhile/iiis  right  hand 
Held  the  brow/helped  the  eyes'/left  too  vacant,  forthwith  to  remand    120 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter:  't  was  Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up,  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt  any  more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from  the  shore, 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean  —  a  sun's  slow  decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and  entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely  :  so,  arm  folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 


XI. 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 

(For,  awhile  there  was  trouble  within  me)  what  next  should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had   restored  him?     Song  filled  to  the 

verge 

His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it  yields  130 

Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty  :  beyond,  on  what  fields, 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the  eye, 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup  they  put  by? 
He  saith,  "  It  is  good  ;  "  still  he  drinks  not  :  he  lets  me  praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 


XII. 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 

Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round  me  the  sheep 
Fed  in  silence  —  above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep ; 


202  SAUL. 

And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that  might  lie 
^Neath  his  ken,  tho'  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky  : 
And  1  laughed  —  "  Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be  passed  with  my 

flocks,  140 

Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and  the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly  shall  know! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage  that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for  !  "     And  now  these 

old  trains 

Of  vague  thought  came  again  ;  I  grew  surer ;  so,  once  more  the  string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus  — 


XIII. 

"  Yea,  my  King," 

I  began —  "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts  that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and  by  brute : 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit.     150 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,  —  how  its  stem  trembled 

first 

Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler ;  then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round;    and  thou  mindest  when  these  too,  in 

turn 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect :    yet  more  was  to 

learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.     Our  dates  shall  we 

slight. 

When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow?  or  care  for  the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them  ?  •  Not  so !  stem 

and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm-wine  shall 

staunch 

Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for!  the  spirit  be  thine!  160 

By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  inconscious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running!     Each  deed  thou  hast 

done 

Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world ;  until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  tho'  clouds  spoil  him,  tho'  tempests  efface, 
Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime,  —  so,  each  ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardour,  till  they  too  give  forth 
A   like   cheer   to   their   sons :    who   in   turn,  fill   the    South   and   the 

North  170 

With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.     Carouse  in  the  past.' 


SAUL. 


203 


But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit ;  thou  diest  at  last. 

As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her  height, 

So  with  man  —  so  his  power  and  his  beauty  for  ever  take  flight. 

No!     Again  a  long   draught  of  my  soul- wine!     Look   forth    o'er  the 

years ! 

Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual ;  begin  with  the  seer's ! 
Is  Saul  dead?     In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb  —  bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slumbers :  whose  fame  would 

ye  know? 

Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record  shall  go  180 

In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe,  —  Such  was  Saul,  so  he  did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid, — 
For  not  half,  they  '11  affirm,  is  comprised  there!    Which  fault  to  amend. 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  't  is  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and  record 
With   the   gold   of  the  graver,  Saul's   story,  —  the   statesman's  great 

word 

Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.     The  river 's  a-wave 
With   smooth   paper-reeds   grazing   each    other   when   prophet-winds 

rave : 

So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part 
In   thy   being!     Then,   first   of    the    mighty,   thank    God    that   thou 

art!"  190 

XIV. 

And  behold  while  I  sang  .   .    .  but  O  Thou  who  didst  grant  me  that 

day, 

And  before  it  not  seldom  has  granted  thy  help  to  essay, 
Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure, —  my  shield  and  my  sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was  my  word, — 
Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human  endeavour 
And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed  hopeless  as  ever 
On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me  —  till,  mighty  to  save. 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance  —  God's  throne  from 

man's  grave! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending —  my  voice  to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels  last  night  I  took  part,  200 
As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my  sheep, 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep  ! 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and  Kidron  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 


I  say  then,  —  my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and,  ever  more  strong, 


204  SAUL. 

Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him  —  he  slowly  resumed 

His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.     The  right  hand  replumed 

H.is  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted  the  swathes 

Of  his  turban,  and  see  —  the  huge  sweat  that  his  countenance  bathes,  210 

He  wipes  off  with  the  robe ;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins  as  of  yore, 

And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp  set  before. 

He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory,  —  ere  error  had  bent 

The   broad   brow   from   the   daily  communion ;    and  still,  tho'  much 

spent 

Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God  did  choose, 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  till,  stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armour  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned  there  awhile, 
And  sat  out  my  singing.  —  one  arm  round  the  tent-prop,  to  raise 
His  bent  head,   and   the   other   hung   slack  —  till  I    touched  on   the 

praise  220 

I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient  there ; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.     Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak  roots  which 

please 

To  encircle  a  lamb  %vhen  it  slumbers.     I  looked  up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace  :  he  spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow :  thro'  my  hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my  head,  with  kind 

power  — 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a  flower.  230 

Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scrutinized  mine  — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him!  but  where  was  the  sign? 
I  yearned —  ''Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and  this ; 
I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence, 
As  this  moment,  —  had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's  heart  to  dispense!" 


XVI. 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp  more  —  no  song  more!  out- 
broke — 

XVII. 

'•  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation  :  I  saw  and  I  spoke  ; 

I.  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my  brain 

And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork  —  returned  him  again   240 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure:  I  spoke  as  I  saw, 

Reported,  as  man  may  of  God's  work  —  all 's  love,  yet  all  's  law. 

Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me.     Each  faculty  tasked 


SAUL. 


205 


To  perceive  him  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop  was  asked. 

Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid  bare. 

Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the  Infinite  Care! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success? 

I  but  open  my  eyes,  —  and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 

In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen  God 

In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the  clod.  250 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 

(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises  it  too) 

The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  all-complete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 

Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity  known, 

I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my  own. 

There  's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 

I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,  (I  laugh  as  I  think) 

Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst 

E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift.  —  Behold,  I  could  love  if  I  durst!  260 

But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  overtake 

God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love :  I  abstain  for  love's  sake. 

—  What,  my  soul?   see  thus  far,  and  no  farther?   when  doors  great 

and  small, 

Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hundredth  appal  ? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest  of  all? 
Do  1  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
Thav  i  doubt   his  own  love   can   compete   with  it?     Here,  the   parts 

shift  ? 

Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  creator,  —  the  end,  what  began  ? 
Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet  alone  can?       270 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ?  to  make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the  whole? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears  attest), 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one  more,  the 

best? 

Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the  height 
This   perfection,  —  succeed    with   life's   dayspring,  death's   minute  of 

night? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul  the  mistake, 
Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now,  —  and  bid  him  awake  280 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find  himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life,  —  a  new  harmony  yet 
To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended  —  who  knows?  —  or  endure! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to  make  sure ; 
By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 
And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles  in  this. 


206  SAUL. 

XVIII. 

"  I  believe  it!     'T  is  thpu,  God,  that  givest,  't  is  I  who  receive : 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 

All 's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt  to  my  prayer, 

As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the  air.  290 

From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth  •• 

/will?  —  the  mere  atoms  despise  me!     Why  am  I  not  loth 

To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too  ?     Why  is  it  I  dare 

Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?     What  stops  my  despair? 

This ;  —  't  is  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,    but    what  man 

Would  Sol 

See  the  King  —  I  would  help  him,  but  cannot,  the  wishes  fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would  —  knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak  thro'  me  now! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love?    So  wouldst  thou  —  so  wilt  thou!  300 
So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest,  uttermost  crown  — 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in!     It  is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with  death! 
As  thy  love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  Beloved! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest  shall  stand  the  most 

weak. 

i'T  is  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for!  my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead!     I  seek  and  I  find  it.     O  Saul,  it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee ;  a  Man  like  to  me.  310 

Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  for  ever :  a  Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee  !    See  the  Christ  stand! " 

XIX. 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the  night. 

There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and  to  right, 

Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  alive,  the  aware : 

I  repressed,  I  got  thro1  them  as  hardly,  as  strugglingly  there, 

As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news  — 

Life  or  death.     The  whole  earth  was  awakened,  hell  loosed  with  her 

crews ; 

And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled  and  shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowledge :  but  I  fainted  not,      320 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and  supported,  suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy  behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from  earth  — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender  birth ; 
In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray  of  the  hills  ; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath ;  in  the  sudden  wind-thrills  ; 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  2O7 

In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each  with  eye  sidling  still, 
Tho'  averted  with  wonder  and  dread  ;  in  the  birds  stiff  and  chill 
That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid  with  awe :       330 
E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent  —  he  felt  the  new  law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by  the  flowers ; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of   the  cedar  and   moved  the  vine- 
bowers  : 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persistent  and  low, 
With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices —  "  E'en  so,  it  is  so!" 


RABBI   BEN   EZRA. 
I. 

GROW  old  along  with  me! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  "  A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid! " 

n. 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth  sighed  "Which  rose  make  ours, 

Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall! " 

Not  that,  admiring  stars,  lo 

It  yearned  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars  ; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them  all!" 

in. 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate  :  folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

rv. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  ind  ;ed, 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed  20 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 

As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt  the  maw-crammed  beast? 


203  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

v. 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe.    •  30 

VI. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 
\  Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
<)  Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 
/  Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe! 


VII. 

For  thence, —  a  paradox 
AVhich  comforts  while  it  mocks, —          . 
LShall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail  :> 

What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

VIII. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test  — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

IX. 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 

I  own  the  Past  profuse  50 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  : 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to  live  and  learn?" 

x. 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  Thine ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too- 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  209 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 

Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do  !  "          60 

XI. 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as  we  did  best! 

XII. 

Let  us  not  always  say 

"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole!" 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  70 

Let  us  cry  "  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul!" 

XIII. 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life^  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute  ;  a_God  tho'  in  the  germ. 

XIV. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  80 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new : 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next,     • 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

xv. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;  I  shall  know,  being  old.  90 


XVI. 


For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA, 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots  —  "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day." 


XVII. 


So,  still  within  this  life, 

Tho'  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  100 

That  acquiescence  vain : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

XVIII. 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day : 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

XIX. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  thro'  acts  uncouth,  1 10 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made : 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.     Thou  waitedst  age  :  wait  death  nor  be  afraid! 


xx. 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone.        120 


Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small, 

Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 

Right?     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last! 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  211 

XXII. 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that:  whom  shall  my  soul  believer 

XXIII. 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "  work,"  must  sentence  pass. 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice : 

xxrv. 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb.  140 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account : 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount : 

XXV. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act. 

Fancies  that  broke  thro'  language  and  escaped : 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped.       150 

XXVI. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor!  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay,  — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 

When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 

"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change  ;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day! " 

XXVII. 

Fool!     All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 

What  entered  into  thee,  160 


2I2  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :  Potter  and  clay  endure. 


He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest: 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

XXIX. 

What  tho1  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  170 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  tho'  about  thy  rim, 

Scull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 

XXX. 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  Master's  lips  a-glow! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou  with 

earth's  wheel?  180 

XXXI. 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men! 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I,  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 

Bound  dizzily,  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst : 

XXXII. 

Sc,  take  and  use  Thy  work. 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o1  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand!  190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same! 


EPILOGUE.  213 

EPILOGUE. 

FIRST  SPEAKER,  as  David. 


ON  the  first  of  the  Feast  of  Feasts, 
The  Dedication  Day, 
When  the  Levites  joined  the  Priests 

At  the  Altar  in  robed  array, 
Gave  signal  to  sound  and  say, — 


When  the  thousands,  rear  and  van, 

Swarming  with  one  accord, 
Became  as  a  single  man 

(Look,  gesture,  thought  and  word) 
In  praising  and  thanking  the  Lord,  —  10 

in. 

When  the  singers  lift  up  their  voice, 

And  the  trumpets  made  endeavour, 
Sounding,  "In  God  rejoice! " 

Saying,  "In  Him  rejoice 
Whose  mercy  endureth  for  ever!"  — 

IV. 

Then  the  Temple  filled  with  a  cloud, 

Even  the  House  of  the  Lord : 
Porch  bent  and  pillar  bowed : 

For  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 
In  the  glory  of  His  cloud, 

Had  filled  the  House  of  the  Lord.  20 

SECOND  SPEAKER,  as  Renan. 

Gone  now !     All  gone  across  the  dark  so  far, 

Sharpening  fast,  shuddering  ever,  shutting  still, 
Dwindling  into  the  distance,  dies  that  star 

Which  came,  stood,  opened  once!     We  gazed  our  fill 
With  upturned  faces  on  as  real  a  Face 

That,  stooping  from  grave  music  and  mild  fire, 
Took  in  our  homage,  made  a  visible  place 

Thro'  many  a  depth  of  glory,  gyre  on  gyre, 
For  the  dim  human  tribute.     Was  this  true? 

Could  man  indeed  avail,  mere  praise  of  his,  30 


214 


EPILOGUE. 

To  help  by  rapture  God's  own  rapture  too, 

Thrill  with  a  heart's  red  tinge  that  pure  pale  bliss? 
Why  did  it  end  ?     Who  failed  to  beat  the  breast, 

And  shriek,  and  throw  the  arms  protesting  wide, 
When  a  first  shadow  showed  the  star  addressed 

Itself  to  motion,  and  on  either  side 
The  rims  contracted  as  the  rays  retired  ; 

The  music,  like  a  fountain's  sickening  pulse, 
Subsided  on  itself;  awhile  transpired 

Some  vestige  of  a  Face  no  pangs  convulse,  40 

No  prayers  retard ;  then  even  this  was  gone, 

Lost  in  the  night  at  last.     We,  lone  and  left 
Silent  thro'  centuries,  ever  and  anon 

Venture  to  probe  again  the  vault  bereft 
Of  all  now  save  the  lesser  lights,  a  mist 

Of  multitudinous  points,  yet  suns,  men  say  — 
And  this  leaps  ruby,  this  lurks  amethyst, 

But  where  may  hide  what  came  and  loved  our  clay? 
How  shall  the  sage  detect  in  yon  expanse 

The  star  which  chose  to  stoop  and  stay  for  us  ?  50 

Unroll  the  records!     Hailed  ye  such  advance 

Indeed,  and  did  your  hope  evanish  thus? 
Watchers  of  twilight,  is  the  worst  averred  ? 

We  shall  not  look  up,  know  ourselves  are  seen, 
Speak,  and  be  sure  that  we  again  are  heard, 

Acting  or  suffering,  have  the  disk's  serene 
Reflect  our  life,  absorb  an  earthly  flame, 

Nor  doubt  that,  were  mankind  inert  and  numb, 
Its  core  had  never  crimsoned  all  the  same, 

Nor,  missing  ours,  its  music  fallen  dumb  ?  60 

Oh,  dread  succession  to  a  dizzy  post, 

Sad  sway  of  sceptre  whose  mere  touch  appals, 
Ghastly  dethronement,  cursed  by  those  the  most 

On  whose  repugnant  brow  the  crown  next  falls  ! 


THIRD  SPEAKER. 

i. 

Witless  alike  of  will  and  way  divine, 

How  heaven's  high  with  earth's  low  should  intertwine! 

Friends,  I  have  seen  thro'  your  eyes :  now  use  mine! 

n. 

Take  the  least  man  of  all  mankind,  as  I ; 

Look  at  his  head  and  heart,  find  how  and  why 

He  differs  from  his  fellows  utterly :  70 


EPILOGUE.  215 

in. 


Then,  like  me,  watch  when  nature  by  degrees 
Grows  alive  round  him,  as  in  Arctic  seas 
(They  said  of  old)  the  instinctive  water  flees 


IV. 


Toward  some  elected  point  of  central  rock, 
As  tho',  for  its  sake  only,  roamed  the  flock 
Of  waves  about  the  waste :  awhile  they  mock 


v. 


With  radiance  caught  for  the  occasion,  —  hues 
Of  blackest  hell  now,  now  such  reds  and  blues 
As  only  heaven  could  fitly  interfuse,  — 


VI. 


The  mimic  monarch  of  the  whirlpool,  king  80 

O'  the  current  for  a  minute :  then  they  wring 
Up  by  the  roots  and  oversweep  the  thing, 


And  hasten  off,  to  play  again  elsewhere 
The  same  part,  choose  another  peak  as  bare, 
They  find  and  flatter,  feast  and  finish  there. 

vm. 

When  you  see  what  I  tell  you,  —  nature  dance 
About  each  man  of  us,  retire,  advance, 
As  tho'  the  pageant's  end  were  to  enhance 


IX. 

His  worth,  and  —  once  the  life,  his  product,  gained  — 

Roll  away  elsewhere,  keep  the  strife  sustained,  90 

And  show  thus  real,  a  thing  the  North  but  feigned,  — 


x. 

When  you  acknowledge  that  one  world  could  do 
All  the  diverse  work,  old  yet  ever  new, 
Divide  us,  each  from  other,  me  from  you,  — 


2i6  EPILOGUE. 

XI. 

Why,  where  's  the  need  of  Temple,  when  the  walls 
O'  the  world  are  that  ?     What  use  of  swells  and  falls 
From  Levites1  choir,  Priests'  cries,  and  trumpet-calls  ? 

XII. 

That  one  Face,  far  from  vanish,  rather  grows, 

Or  decomposes  but  to  recompose, 

Become  my  universe  that  feels  and  knows!  100 


A  WALL. 


OTHE  old  wall  here!     How  I  could  pass 
Life  in  a  long  midsummer  day, 
My  feet  confined  to  a  plot  of  grass, 
My  eyes  from  a  wall  not  once  away! 


And  lush  and  lithe  do  the  creepers  clothe 
Yon  wall  I  watch,  with  a  wealth  of  green: 

Its  bald  red  bricks  draped,  nothing  loth, 
In  lappets  of  tangle  they  laugh  between. 

in. 

Now,  what  is  it  makes  pulsate  the  robe  ? 

Why  tremble  the  sprays  ?     What  life  o'erbrims  10 

The  body,  —  the  house,  no  eye  can  probe,  — 

Divined  as,  beneath  a  robe,  the  limbs? 

IV. 

And  there  again  !     But  my  heart  may  guess 
Who  tripped  behind ;  and  she  sang  perhaps : 

So,  the  old  wall  throbbed,  and  its  life's  excess 
Died  out  and  away  in  the  leafy  wraps. 


Wall  upon  wall  are  between  us  :  life 

And  song  should  away  from  heart  to  heart ! 

I  —  prison-bird,  with  a  ruddy  strife 

At  breast,  and  a  lip  whence  storm-notes  start  —          20 

VI. 

Hold  on,  hope  hard  in  the  subtle  thing 

That 's  spirit :  tho'  cloistered  fast,  soar  free ; 

Account  as  wood,  brick,  stone,  this  ring 

Of  the  rueful  neighbours,  and  —  forth  to  thee! 

217 


2l8  APPARITIONS. 

APPARITIONS. 


SUCH  a  starved  bank  of  moss 
Till,  that  May-morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across : 
Violets  were  bora! 

n. 

Sky  —  what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud : 

Splendid,  a  star! 


in. 

World  —  how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace  io 

Till  God's  own  smile  came  out : 

That  was  thy  face! 


NATURAL   MAGIC. 


ALL  I  can  say  is  —  I  saw  it! 
The  room  was  as  bare  as  your  hand. 
I  locked  in  the  swarth  little  lady,  —  I  swear, 
From  the  head  to  the  foot  of  her  —  well,  quite  as  bare! 
"No  Nautch  shall  cheat  me,"  said  I.  "  taking  my  stand 
At  this  bolt  which  I  draw! "   .And  this  bolt  —  I  withdraw  it, 
And  there  laughs  the  lady,  not  bare,  but  embowered 
With  — who  knows  what  verdure,  o'erfruited,  o'erflowered? 
Impossible!     Only  —  I  saw  it! 

n. 

All  I  can  sing  is  — I  feel  it!  io 

This  life  was  as  blank  as  that  room  ; 

I  let  you  pass  in  here.     Precaution,  indeed? 

Walls,  ceiling  and  floor, —  not  a  chance  for  a  weed! 

Wide  opens  the  entrance  :  where  's  cold  now,  where' s  gloom  ? 

No  May  to  sow  seed  here,  no  June  to  reveal  it, 


MAGICAL  NATURE.  219 

Behold  you  enshrined  in  these  blooms  of  your  bringing, 
These  fruits  of  your  bearing — nay,  birds  of  your  winging! 
A  fairy-tale !     Only  —  I  feel  it ! 


MAGICAL  NATURE. 

T. 

FLOWER  —  I  never  fancied,  jewel  —  I  profess  you! 
Bright  I  see  and  soft  I  feel  the  outside  of  a  flower. 
Save  but  glow  inside  and  —  jewel,  I  should  guess  you, 
Dim  to  sight  and  rough  to  touch :  the  glory  is  the  dowers 

n. 

You,  forsooth,  a  flower?     Nay,  my  love,  a  jewel  — 
Jewel  at  no  mercy  of  a  moment  in  your  prime! 

Time  may  fray  the  flower-face  :  kind  be  time  or  cruel, 
Jewel,  from  each  facet,  flash  your  laugh  at  time! 


GARDEN  FANCIES. 

i..  THE  FLOWER'S  NAME. 

i. 

HERE  'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 
Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since : 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung ; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spurned, 
To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

II. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box : 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by! 
She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know  ; 

But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie! 


220 


GARDEN  FANCIES. 

in. 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name.  20 

What  a  name!     Was  it  love  or  praise? 

Speech  half-asleep  or  -song  half-awake  ? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

IV. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase. 
But  do  not  detain  me  now ;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground,  30 

And  ever  1  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 


Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  for  ever! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  1t  is  that  you  blow  not : 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle ; 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen?  40 

VI. 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee  ; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June  's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall! 
—  Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces  — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all ! 


GARDEN  FANCIES.  22I 


n.     SIBRANDUS   SCHAFNABURGENSIS. 
I. 

Plague  take  all  your  pedants,  say  I! 

He  who  wrote  what  I  hold  in  my  hand, 
Centuries  back  was  so  good  as  to  die, 

Leaving  this  rubbish  to  cumber  the  land ; 
This,  that  was  a  book  in  its  time, 

Printed  on  paper  and  bound  in  leather, 
Last  month  in  the  white  of  a  matin-prime 

Just  when  the  birds  sang  all  together. — 

n. 

Into  the  garden  I  brought  it  to  read, 

And  under  the  arbute  and  laurustine  IO 

Read  it,  so  help  me  grace  in  my  need, 

From  title-page  to  closing  line. 
Chapter  on  chapter  did  I  count, 

As  a  curious  traveler  counts  Stonehenge ; 
Added  up  the  mortal  amount, 

And  then  proceeded  to  my  revenge. 


Yonder 's  a  plum-tree  with  a  crevice 

An  owl  would  build  in,  were  he  but  sage ; 
For  a  lap  of  moss,  like  a  fine  pont-levis 

In  a  castle  of  the  Middle  Age,  2O 

Joins  to  a  lip  of  gum,  pure  amber ; 

When  he  'd  be  private,  there  might  he  spend 
Hours  alone  in  his  lady's  chamber : 

Into  this  crevice  I  dropped  our  friend. 

rv. 

Splash,  went  he,  as  under  he  ducked, 

—  At  the  bottom,  I  knew,  rain-drippings  stagnate ; 
Next,  a  handful  of  blossoms  I  plucked 

To  bury  him  with,  my  bookshelf's  magnate ; 
Then  I  went  in-doors,  brought  out  a  loaf, 

Half  a  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  Chablis ;  30 

Lay  on  the  grass  and  forgot  the  oaf 

Over  a  jolly  chapter  of  Rabelais. 

v. 

Now,  this  morning,  betwixt  the  moss 

And  gum  that  locked  our  friend  in  limbo, 


222 


GARDEN  FANCIES. 

A  spider  had  spun  his  web  across, 

And  sat  in  the  midst  with  arms  akimbo : 
So,  I  took  pity,  for  learning's  sake, 

And,  de  profundis,  accentibus  l&tis, 
Cantatel  quoth  I,  as  I  got  a  rake  ; 

And  up  I  fished  his  delectable  treatise.  40 

VI. 

Here  you  have  it,  dry  in  the  sun, 

With  all  the  binding  all  of  a  blister, 
And  great  blue  spots  where  the  ink  has  run, 

And  reddish  streaks  that  wink  and  glister 
O'er  the  page  so  beautifully  yellow : 

Oh,  well  have  the  droppings  played  their  tricks! 
Did  he  guess  how  toadstools  grow,  this  fellow  ? 

Here  's  one  stuck  in  his  chapter  six! 

VII. 

How  did  he  like  it  when  the  live  creatures 

Tickled  and  toused  and  browsed  him  all  over,  50 

And  worm,  slug,  eft,  with  serious  features, 

Came  in,  each  one,  for  his  right  of  trover? 
—  When  the  water-beetle  with  great  blind  deaf  face 

Made  of  her  eggs  the  stately  deposit, 
And  the  newt  borrowed  just  so  much  of  the  preface 

As  tiled  in  the  top  of  his  black  wife's  closet  ? 

VIII. 

All  that  life  and  fun  and  romping, 

All  that  frisking  and  twisting  and  coupling, 
While  slowly  our  poor  friend's  leaves  were  swamping 

And  clasps  were  cracking  and  covers  suppling!  60 

As  if  you  had  carried  sour  John  Knox 

To  the  play-house  at  Paris,  Vienna  or  Munich, 
Fastened  him  into  a  front-row  box, 

And  danced  off  the  ballet  with  trousers  and  tunic. 


Come,  old  martyr!     What,  torment  enough  is  it? 

Back  to  my  room  shall  you  take  your  sweet  self. 
Good-bye,  mother-beetle  ;  husband-eft,  sufficit ! 

See  the  snug  niche  I  have  made  on  my  shelf! 
A's  book  shall  prop  you  up,  B1s  shall  cover  you, 

Here  's  C  to  be  grave  with,  or  D  to  be  gay,  70 

And  with  E  on  each  side,  and  F  right  over  you, 

Dry-rot  at  ease  till  the  Judgment-day! 


IN  THREE  DAYS.  223 

IN   THREE   DAYS, 
i. 

SO,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn! 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine,  — 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine! 

II. 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days! 

But  nights,  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 

As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is,  IO 

A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 

So  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 

And  my  eyes  hold  her!     What  is  worth 

The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth  ? 


in. 

O  loaded  curls,  release  your  store 

Of  warmth  and  scent,  as  once  before 

The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 

Outbreaking  into  fairy  sparks, 

When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 

After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside,  20 

Thro'  lights  and  darks  how  manifold  — 

The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled, 

As  early  Art  embrowns  the  gold! 

IV. 

What  great  fear,  should  one  say,  "  Three  days, 

That  change  the  world  might  change  as  well 

Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 

Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell ! " 

What  small  fear,  if  another  says, 

"  Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways  ;  y> 

But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 

No  fear!  —  or,  if  a  fear  be  born 


224  THE  LOST  MISTRESS. 

This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 
Fear?     I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
Artd  one  night,  now  the  nights  are  short, 
Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn! 


THE   LOST   MISTRESS. 


ALL 'S  over,  then  :  does  truth  sound  bitter 
As  one  at  first  believes? 
Hark,  't  is  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 
About  your  cottage  eaves  ! 


And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully : 

You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

in. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine?  10 

Mere  friends  are  we,  —  well,  friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  I  resign: 


For  each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Tho'  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavour,  — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Tho'  it  stay  in  my  soul  for  ever!  — 


Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger : 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer  ! 


ONE   WAY  OF  LOVE.  22$ 

ONE   WAY   OF   LOVE. 


ALL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside?     Alas! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 


How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 

These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute! 

To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 

She  will  not  hear  my  music ?     So!  IO 

Break  the  string ;  fold  music's  wing : 

Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing ! 

in. 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 
This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 
And  speak  my  passion  —  heaven  or  hell  ? 
She  will  not  give  me  heaven?     'T  is  well! 
Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  say, 
Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they ! 


RUDEL  TO   THE   LADY   OF   TRIPOLI. 


I  KNOW  a  Mount,  the  gracious  Sun  perceives 
First,  when  he  visits,  last,  too,  when  he  leaves 
The  world  ;  and,  vainly  favoured,  it  repays 
The  day-long  glory  of  his  steadfast  gaze 
By  no  change  of  its  large  calm  front  of  snow. 
And,  underneath  the  Mount,  a  Flower  I  know, 
He  can  not  have  perceived,  that  changes  ever 
At  his  approach  ;  and,  in  the  lost  endeavour 
To  live  his  life,  has  parted,  one  by  one, 

With  all  a  flower's  true  graces,  for  the  grace  IO 

Of  being  but  a  foolish  mimic  sun, 
With  ray-like  florets  round  a  disk-like  face. 


226  NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

Men  nobly  call  by  many  a  name  the  Mount 

As  over  many  a  land  of  theirs  its  large 

Calm  front  of  snow  like  a  triumphal  targe 

Is  reared,  and  still  with  old  names,  fresh  names  vie, 

Each  to  its  proper  praise  and  own  account : 

Men  call  the  Flower,  the  Sunflower,  sportively. 


Oh,  Angel  of  the  East,  one,  one  gold  look 
Across  the  waters  to  this  twilight  nook, 
—  The  far  sad  waters,  Angel,  to  this  nook! 


Dear  Pilgrim,  art  thou  for  the  East  indeed  ? 

Go!  —  saying  ever  as  thou  dost  proceed, 

That  I,  French  Rudel.  choose  for  my  device 

A  sunflower  outspread  like  a  sacrifice 

Before  its  idol.     See!     These  inexpert 

And  hurried  fingers  could  not  fail  to  hurt 

The  woven  picture :  't  is  a  woman's  skill 

Indeed ;  but  nothing  baffled  me.  so,  ill 

Or  well,  the  work  is  finished.     Say,  men  feed  30 

On  songs  I  sing,  and  therefore  bask  the  bees 

On  my  flower's  breast  as  on  a  platform  broad : 

But,  as  the  flowers  concern  is  not  for  these 

But  solely  for  the  sun,  so  men  applaud 

In  vain  this  Rudel,  he  not  looking  here 

But  to  the  East  —  th^.  East!     Go,  say  this,  Pilgrim  dear1. 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

STILL  you  stand,  still  you  listen,  still  you  smile! 
_     Still  melts  your  moonbeam  thro'  me,  white  awhile, 
S<  iftening,  sweetening,  till  sweet  and  soft 
Increase  so  round  this  heart  of  mine,  that  oft 
I  could  believe  your  moonbeam-smile  has  past 
The  pallid  limit  lies,  transformed  at  last 
To  sunlight  and  salvation  —  warms  the  soul 
It  sweetens,  softens!     Would  you  pass  that  goal, 
Gain  love's  birth  at  the  limit's  happier  verge, 
And,  where  an  iridescence  lurks,  but  urge  10 

The  hesitating  pallor  on  to  prime 
Of  dawn'  —  true  blood-streaked,  sun-warmth,  action-time, 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 


227 


By  heart-pulse  ripened  to  a  ruddy  glow 

Of  gold  above  my  clay  —  I  scarce  should  know 

From  gold's  self,  thus  suffused!     For  gold  means  love. 

What  means  the  sad  slow  silver  smile  above 

My  clay  but  pity,  pardon  ?  —  at  the  best, 

But  acquiescence  that  I  take  my  rest, 

Contented  to  be  clay,  while  in  your  heaven 

The  sun  reserves  love  for  the  Spirit-Seven  20 

Companioning  God's  throne  they  lamp  before, 

—  Leaves  earth  a  mute  waste  only  wandered  o'er 

By  that  pale  soft  sweet  disempassioned  moon 

Which  smiles  me  slow  forgiveness!     Such  the  boon 

I  beg?     Nay,  dear,  submit  to  this — just  this 

Supreme  endeavour!     As  my  lips  now  kiss 

Your  feet,  my  arms  convulse  your  shrouding  robe, 

My  eyes  acquainted  with  the  dust,  dare  probe 

Your  eyes  above  for  —  what,  if  born,  would  blind 

Mine  with  redundant  bliss,  as  flash  may  find  30 

The  inert  nerve,  sting  awake  the  palsied  limb, 

Bid  with  life's  ecstacy  sense  overbrim 

And  suck  back  death  in  the  resurging  joy  — 

Love,  the  love  whole  and  sole  without  alloy! 

Vainly!     The  promise  withers!     I  employ 

Lips,  arms,  eyes,  pray  the  prayer  which  finds  the  word, 

Make  the  appeal  which  must  be  felt,  not  heard, 

And  none  the  more  is  changed  your  calm  regard : 

Rather,  its  sweet  and  soft  grow  harsh  and  hard  — 

Forbearance,  then  repulsion,  then  disdain.  40 

Avert  the  rest !     I  rise,  see .'  —  make,  again 

Once  more,  the  old  departure  for  some  track 

Untried  yet  thro'  a  world  which  brings  me  back 

Ever  thus  fruitlessly  to  find  your  feet, 

To  fix  your  eyes,  to  pray  the  soft  and  sweet 

Which  smile  there  —  take  from  his  new  pilgrimage 

Your  outcast,  once  your  inmate,  and  assuage 

With  love  —  not  placid  pardon  now  —  his  thirst 

For  a  mere  drop  from  out  the  ocean  erst 

He  drank  at!     Well,  the  quest  shall  be  renewed.  50 

Fear  nothing!     Tho'  I  linger,  unembued 

With  any  drop,  my  lips  thus  close.     I  go! 

So  did  I  leave  you,  I  have  found  you  so, 

And  doubtlessly,  if  fated  to  return, 

So  shall  my  pleading  persevere  and  earn 

Pardon  —  not  love  —  in  that  same  smile,  I  learn, 

And  lose  the  meaning  of,  to  learn  once  more, 

Vainly! 


228  NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

What  fairy  track  do  I  explore? 
What  magic  hall  return  to,  like  the  gem 

Centuply-angled  o'er  a  diadem  ?  60 

You  dwell  there,  hearted ;  from  your  midmost  home 
Rays  forth  —  thro1  that  fantastic  world  I  roam 
Ever  —  from  centre  to  circumference, 
Shaft  upon  coloured  shaft :  this  crimsons  thence, 
That  pui-ples  out  its  precinct  thro'  the  waste. 
Surely  I  had  your  sanction  when  I  faced, 
Fared  forth  upon  that  untried  yellow  ray 
Whence  I  retrack  my  steps?     They  end  to-day 
Where  they  began,  before  your  feet,  beneath 
Your  eyes,  your  smile  :  the  blade  is  shut  in  sheath,  70 

Fire  quenched  in  flint ;  irradiation,  late 
Triumphant  thro1  the  distance,  finds  its  fate, 
Merged  in  your  blank  pure  soul,  alike  the  source 
And  tomb  of  that  prismatic  glow  :  divorce 
Absolute,  all-conclusive!     Forth  I  fared. 
Treading  the  lambent  flamelet :  little  cared 
If  now  its  flickering  took  the  topaz  tint, 
If  now  my  dull-caked  path  gave  sulphury  hint 
Of  subterranean  rage  —  no  stay  nor  stint 

To  yellow,  since  you  sanctioned  that  I  bathe,  8c 

Burnish  me,  soul  and  body,  s\vim  and  swathe 
In  yellow  license.     Here  I  reek  suffused 
With  crocus,  saffron,  orange,  as  I  used 
With  scarlet,  purple,  every  dye  o'  the  bow- 
Born  of  the  storm-cloud.     As  before,  you  shcl? 
Scarce  recognition,  no  approval,  some 
Mistrust,  more  wonder  at  a  man  become 
Monstrous  in  garb,  nay  —  flesh  disguised  as  well, 
Thro1  his  adventure.     Whatsoe'er  befell, 
I  followed,  wheresoever  it  wound,  that  vein  90 

You  authorized  should  leave  your  whiteness,  stain 
Earth's  sombre  stretch  beyond  your  midmost  place 
Of  vantage,  —  trode  that  tinct  whereof  the  trace 
On  garb  and  flesh  repel  you!     Yes,  I  plead 
Your  own  permission  —  your  command,  indeed, 
That  who  would  worthily  retain  the  love 
Must  share  the  knowledge  shrined  those  eyes  above, 
Go  boldly  on  adventure,  break  thro'  bounds 
O'  the  quintessential  whiteness  that  surrounds 
Your  feet,  obtain  experience  of  each  tinge  100 

That  bickers  forth  to  broaden  out,  impinge 
Plainer  his  foot  its  pathway  all  distinct 
From  every  other.     Ah,  the  wonder,  linked 
With  fear,  as  exploration  manifests 
What  agency  it  was  first  tipped  the  crests 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 


229 


Of  unnamed  wildflower.  soon  protruding  grew 

Portentous  'mid  the  sands,  as  when  his  hue 

Betrays  him  and  the  burrowing  snake  gleams  through  ; 

Till,  last  .  .  but  why  parade  more  shame  and  pain? 

Are  not  the  proofs  upon  me?     Here  again  no 

I  pass  into  your  presence,  I  receive 

Your  smile  of  pity,  pardon,  and  I  leave  .  .  . 

No,  not  this  last  of  times  I  leave  you,  mute, 

Submitted  to  my  penance,  so  my  foot 

May  yet  again  adventure,  tread,  from  source 

To  issue,  one  more  ray  of  rays  which  course 

Each  other,  at  your  bidding,  from  the  sphere 

Silver  and  sweet,  their  birthplace,  down  that  drear 

Dark  of  the  world,  —  you  promise  shall  return 

Your  pilgrim  jewelled  as  with  drops  o'  the  urn  120 

The  rainbow  paints  from,  and  no  smatch  at  all 

Of  ghastliness  at  edge  of  some  cloud-pall 

Heaven  cowers  before,  as  earth  awaits  the  fall 

O'  the  bolt  and  flash  of  doom.     Who  trusts  your  word 

Tries  the  adventure :  and  returns  —  absurd 

As  frightful  —  in  that  sulphur-steeped  disguise 

Mocking  the  priestly  cloth-of-gold,  sole  prize 

The  arch-heretic  was  wont  to  bear  away 

Until  he  reached  the  burning.     No,  I  say : 

No  fresh  adventure!     No  more  seeking  love  130 

At  end  of  toil,  and  finding,  calm  above 

My  passion,  the  old  statuesque  regard, 

The  sad  petrific  smile ! 


O  you  —  less  hard 

And  hateful  than  mistaken  and  obtuse 
Unreason  of  a  she-intelligence! 
You  very  woman  with  the  pert  pretence 
To  match  the  male  achievement!     Like  enough! 
Ay,  you  were  easy  victors,  did  the  rough 
Straightway  efface  itself  to  smooth,  the  gruff 
Grind  down  and  grow  a  whisper,  —  did  man's  truth  140 

Subdue,  for  sake  of  chivalry  and  ruth, 
Its  rapier-edge  to  suit  the  bulrush-spear 
Womanly  falsehood  fights  with !     O  that  ear 
All  fact  pricks  rudely,  that  thrice-superfine 
Feminity  of  sense,  with  right  divine 
To  waive  all  process,  take  result  stain-free 
From  out  the  very  muck  wherein  .  .  . 

Ah  me! 

The  true  slave's  querulous  outbreak!     All  the  rest 
Be  resignation !     Forth  at  your  behest 


APPEARANCES. 

I  fare.     Who  knows  but  this  —  the  crimson-quest  —        150 

May  deepen  to  a  sunrise,  not  decay 

To  that  cold  sad  sweet  smile  ?  —  which  I  obey. 


APPEARANCES. 


AND  so  you  found  that  poor  room  dull, 
Dark,  hardly  to  your  taste,  my  Dear? 
Its  features  seemed  unbeautiful : 

But  this  I  know  —  't  was  there,  not  here, 
You  plighted  troth  to  me,  the  word 
Which  —  ask  that  poor  room  how  it  heard! 


II. 


And  this  rich  room  obtains  your  praise 
Unqualified,  —  so  bright,  so  fair, 

So  all  whereat  perfection  stays  ? 

Ay,  but  remember  —  here,  not  there, 

The  other  word  was  spoken!     Ask 

This  rich  room  how  you  dropped  the  mask! 


THE  WORST   OF   IT. 

i. 

WOULD  it  were  I  had  been  false,  not  you! 
I  that  am  nothing,  not  you  that  are  all : 
I,  never  the  worse  for  a  touch  or  two 

On  my  speckled  hide  ;  not  you,  the  pride 
Of  the  day,  my  swan,  that  a  first  fleck's  fall 
On  her  wonder  of  white  must  unswan,  undo! 

n. 

I  had  dipped  in  life's  struggle  and,  out  again, 
Bore  specks  of  it  here,  there,  easy  to  see, 

When  I  found  my  swan  and  the  cure  was  plain ; 
The  dull  turned  bright  as  I  caught  your  white 

On  my  bosom  :  you  saved  me  —  saved  in  vain 
If  you  ruined  yourself,  and  all  thro1  me! 


THE  WORST  OF  IT,  231 

in. 

yes,  ail  thro'  the  speckled  beast  that  I  am, 
Who  taught  you  to  stoop ;  you  gave  me  yourself, 

And  bound  your  soul  by  the  vows  that  damn : 
Since  on  better  thought  you  break,  as  you  ought, 

Vows  —  words,  no  angel  set  down,  some  elf 
Mistook,  —  for  an  oath,  an  epigram ! 

IV. 

Yes,  might  I  judge  you,  here  were  my  heart, 

And  a  hundred  its  like,  to  treat  as  you  pleased!  20 

I  choose  to  be  yours,  for  my  proper  part, 

Yours,  leave  or  take,  or  mar  me  or  make ; 
If  I  acquiesce,  why  should  you  be  teased 

With  the  conscience-prick  and  the  memory-smart? 

v. 

But  what  will  God  say?     Oh,  my  Sweet, 

Think,  and  be  sorry  you  did  this  thing! 
Tho'  earth  were  unworthy  to  feel  your  feet, 

There  's  a  heaven  above  may  deserve  your  love : 
Should  you  forfeit  heaven  for  a  snapt  gold  ring 

And  a  promise  broke,  were  it  just  or  meet  ?  30 

VI. 

And  I  to  have  tempted  you!     I,  who  tried 

Your  soul,  no  doubt,  till  it  sank !     Unwise, 
I  loved  and  was  lowly,  loved  and  aspired, 

Loved,  grieving  or  glad,  till  I  made  you  mad 
And  you  meant  to  have  hated  and  despised  — 

Whereas,  you  deceived  me  nor  inquired! 

VII. 

She,  ruined?     How?     No  heaven  for  her? 

Crowns  to  give,  and  none  for  the  brow 
That  looked  like  marble  and  smelt  like  myrrh  ? 

Shall  the  robe  be  worn,  and  the  palm-branch  borne,  40 

And  she  go  graceless,  she  graced  now 

Beyond  all  saints,  as  themselves  aver? 

VIII. 

Hardly!     That  must  be  understood! 

The  earth  is  your  place  of  penance,  then ; 


232 


THE  WORST  OF  IT. 

And  what  will  it  prove  ?     I  desire  your  good, 

But,  plot  as  I  may,  I  can  find  no  way 
How  a  blow  should  fall,  such  as  falls  on  men, 

Nor  prove  too  much  for  your  womanhood. 

IX. 

It  will  come,  I  suspect,  at  the  end  of  life, 

When  you  walk  alone,  and  review  the  past ;  50 

And  I,  who  so  long  shall  have  done  with  strife, 

And  journeyed  my  stage  and  earned  my  wage 
And  retired  as  was  right,  —  I  am  called  at  last 

When  the  devil  stabs  you,  to  lend  the  knife. 


He  stabs  for  the  minute  of  trivial  wrong, 

Nor  the  other  hours  are  able  to  save, 
The  happy,  that  lasted  my  whole  life  long : 

For  a  promise  broke,  not  for  first  words  spoke, 
The  true,  the  only,  that  turn  my  grave 

To  a  blaze  of  joy  and  a  crash  of  song.  60 


Witness  beforehand!     Off  I  trip 

On  a  safe  path  gay  thro1  the  flowers  you  flung : 
My  very  name  made  great  by  your  lip, 

And  my  heart  a-glow  with  the  good  I  know 
Of  a  perfect  year  when  we  both  were  young, 

And  I  tasted  the  angels1  fellowship. 


And  witness,  moreover  .  .  .  Ah,  but  wait ! 

I  spy  the  loop  whence  an  arrow  shoots! 
It  may  be  for  yourself,  when  you  meditate, 

That  you  grieve  —  for  slain  ruth,  murdered  truth  :  70 

"  Tho1  falsehood  escape  in  the  end,  what  boots  ? 

How  truth  would  have  triumphed!"  —  you  sigh  too  late. 


Ay,  who  would  have  triumphed  like  you,  I  say ! 

Well,  it  is  lost  now ;  well,  you  must  bear, 
Abide  and  grow  fit  for  a  better  day : 

You  should  hardly  grudge,  could  I  be  your  judge ! 
But  hush !     For  you,  can  be  no  despair  : 

There  ?s  amends  :  't  is  a  secret :  hope  and  pray! 


THE  WORST  OF  77*. 


233 


XIV. 

For  I  was  true  at  least  —  oh,  true  enough! 

And,  Dear,  truth  is  not  as  good  as  it  seems !  80 

Commend  me  to  conscience!     Idle  stuff! 

Much  help  is  in  mine,  as  I  mope  and  pine, 
And  skulk  thro1  day,  and  scowl  in  my  dreams 

At  my  swan's  obtaining  the  crow's  rebuff. 

XV. 

Men  tell  me  of  truth  now  —  "  False !  "  I  cry : 
Of  beauty  —  "A  mask,  friend !     Look  beneath ! " 

We  take  our  own  method,  the  devil  and  I, 
With  pleasant  and  fair  and  wise  and  rare : 

And  the  best  we  wish  to  what  lives,  is  —  death ; 

Which  even  in  wishing,  perhaps  we  lie!  90 

XVI. 

Far  better  commit  a  fault  and  have  done  — 

As  you,  Dear!  —  for  ever ;  and  choose  the  pure, 

And  look  where  the  healing  waters  run, 
And  strive  and  strain  to  be  good  again, 

And  a  place  in  the  other  world  ensure, 
All  glass  and  gold,  with  God  for  its  sun. 

xvn. 
Misery!     What  shall  I  say  or  do? 

I  can  not  advise,  or,  at  least,  persuade. 
Most  like,  you  are  glad  you  deceived  me  —  rue 

No  whit  of  the  wrong :  you  endured  too  long,  100 

Have  done  no  evil  and  want  no  aid, 

Will  live  the  old  life  out  and  chance  the  new. 

XVIII. 

And  your  sentence  is  written  all  the  same, 

And  I  can  do  nothing,  —  pray,  perhaps : 
But  somehow  the  world  pursues  its  game,  — 

If  I  pray,  if  I  curse,  —  for  better  or  worse  : 
And  my  faith  is  torn  to  a  thousand  scraps, 

And  my  heart  feels  ice  while  my  words  breathe  flame. 

XIX. 

Dear,  I  look  from  my  hiding-place. 

Are  you  still  so  fair?     Have  you  still  the  eyes?  no 

Be  happy !     Add  but  the  other  grace, 

Be  good!     Why  want  what  the  angels  vaunt? 
I  knew  you  once  :  but  in  Paradise, 

If  we  meet,  I  will  pass  nor  turn  my  face. 


234  TOO  LATE. 


TOO  LATE. 


HERE  was  I  with  my  arm  and  heart 
And  brain,  all  yours  for  a  word,  a  want 
Put  into  a  look  —  just  a  look,  your  part, — 

While  mine,  to  repay  it  ...  vainest  vaunt, 
Were  the  woman,  that 's  dead,  alive  to  hear, 

Had  her  lover,  that's  lost,  love's  proof  to  show! 
But  I  can  not  show  it ;  you  can  not  speak 

From  the  churchyard  neither,  miles  removed, 
Tho'  I  feel  by  a  pulse  within  my  cheek, 

Which  stabs  and  stops,  that  the  woman  I  loved  10 

Needs  help  in  her  grave  and  finds  none  near, 

Wants  warmth  from  the  heart  which  sends  it  —  so! 


II. 

Did  I  speak  once  angrily,  all  the  drear  days 

You  lived,  you  woman  I  loved  so  well, 
Who  married  the  other?     Blame  or  praise, 

Where  was  the  use  then?     Time  would  tell, 
And  the  end  declare  what  man  for  you, 

What  woman  for  me  was  the  choice  of  God. 
But,  Edith  dead!  no  doubting  more! 

I  used  to  sit  and  look  at  my  life  20 

As  it  rippled  and  ran  till,  right  before, 

A  great  stone  stopped  it :  oh,  the  strife 
Of  waves  at  the  stone  some  devil  threw 

In  my  life's  midcurrent,  thwarting  God! 


But  either  I  thought,  "  They  may  churn  and  chide 

Awhile,  —  my  waves  which  came  for  their  joy 
And  found  this  horrible  stone  full-tide  : 

Yet  I  see  just  a  thread  escape,  deploy 
Thro'  the  evening-country,  silent  and  safe, 

And  it  suffers  no  more  till  it  finds  the  sea."  30 

Or  else  I  would  think,  "  Perhaps  some  night 

When  new  things  happen,  a  meteor-ball 
May  slip  thro'  the  sky  in  a  line  of  light, 

And  earth  breathe  hard,  and  landmarks  fall, 
And  my  waves  no  longer  champ  nor  chafe, 

Since  a  stone  will  have  rolled  from  its  place :  let  be !  " 


TOO  LATE.  235 

IV. 

But,  dead !     All 's  done  with  :  wait  who  may, 

Watch  and  wear  and  wonder  who  will. 
Oh,  my  whole  life  that  ends  to-day! 

Oh,  my  soul's  sentence,  sounding  still,  40 

"  The  woman  is  dead,  that  was  none  of  his  ; 

And  the  man,  that  was  none  of  hers  may  go! " 
There 's  only  the  past  left :  worry  that! 

Wreak,  like  a  bull,  on  the  empty  coat, 
Rage,  its  late  wearer  is  laughing  at ! 

Tear  the  collar  to  rags,  having  missed  his  throat ; 
Strike  stupidly  on  —  "  This,  this  and  this, 

Where  I  would  that  a  bosom  received  the  blow! " 

v. 

I  ought  to  have  done  more :  once  my  speech, 

And  once  your  answer,  and  there,  the  end,  50 

And  Edith  was  henceforth  out  of  reach ! 

Why,  men  do  more  to  deserve  a  friend, 
Be  rid  of  a  foe,  get  rich,  grow  wise, 

Nor,  folding  their  arms,  stare  fate  in  the  face. 
Why,  better  even  have  burst  like  a  thief 

And  borne  you  away  to  a  rock  for  us  two, 
In  a  moment's  horror,  bright,  bloody  and  brief, 

Then  changed  to  myself  again  —  "I  slew 
Myself  in  that  moment ;  a  ruffian  lies 

Somewhere  :  your  slave,  see,  born  in  his  place !  "  60 

VI. 

What  did  the  other  do?    You  be  judge! 

Look  at  us,  Edith !     Here  are  we  both! 
Give  him  his  six  whole  years :  I  grudge 

None  of  the  life  with  you,  nay,  loathe 
Myself  that  I  grudged  his  start  in  advance 

Of  me  who  could  overtake  and  pass. 
But,  as  if  he  loved  you!     No,  not  he, 

Nor  anyone  else  in  the  world,  't  is  plain : 
Who  ever  heard  that  another,  free 

As  I,  young,  prosperous,  sound  and  sane,  70 

Poured  life  out,  proffered  it  —  "  Half  a  glance 

Of  those  eyes  of  yours  and  I  drop  the  glass!" 

VII. 

Handsome,  were  you  ?    'T  is  more  than  they  held, 
More  than  they  said ;  I  was  'ware  and  watched : 


236 


TOO  LATE. 

I  was  the  'scapegrace,  this  rat  belled 

The  cat,  this  fool  got  his  whiskers  scratched  : 
The  others?     No  head  that  was  turned,  no  heart 

Broken,  my  lady,  assure  yourself! 
Each  soon  made  his  mind  up ;  so  and  so 

Married  a  dancer,  such  and  such  80 

Stole  his  friend's  wife,  stagnated  slow, 

Or  maundered,  unable  to  do  as  much, 
And  muttered  of  peace  where  he  had  no  part : 

While,  hid  in  the  closet,  laid  on  the  shelf,  — 


On  the  whole,  you  were  let  alone,  I  think! 

So,  you  looked  to  the  other,  who  acquiesced ; 
My  rival,  the  proud  man,  —  prize  your  pink 

Of  poets !     A  poet  he  was !     I  Ve  guessed : 
He  rhymed  you  his  rubbish  nobody  read, 

Loved  you  and  doved  you  —  did  not  I  laugh!  90 

There  was  a  prize!     But  we  both  were  tried. 

Oh,  heart  of  mine,  marked  broad  with  her  mark, 
Tekel,  found  wanting,  set  aside, 

Scorned!     See,  I  bleed  these  tears  in  the  dark 
Till  comfort  come  and  the  last  be  bled : 

He?     He  is  tagging  your  epitaph. 

IX. 

If  it  would  only  come  over  again! 

—  Time  to  be  patient  with  me,  and  probe 
This  heart  till  you  punctured  the  proper  vein, 

Just  to  learn  what  blood  is  :  twitch  the  robe  100 

From  that  blank  lay-figure  your  fancy  draped, 

Prick  the  leathern  heart  till  the  —  verses  spirt ! 
And  late  it  was  easy ;  late,  you  walked 

Where  a  friend  might  meet  you ;  Edith's  name 
Arose  to  one's  lip  if  one  laughed  or  talked  ; 

If  I  heard  good  news,  you  heard  the  same ; 
When  1  woke,  I  knew  that  your  breath  escaped ; 

I  could  bide  my  time,  keep  alive,  alert. 

x. 

And  alive  I  shall  keep  and  long,  you  will  see! 

I  knew  a  man,  was  kicked  like  a  dog  no 

From  gutter  to  cesspool ;  what  cared  he 

So  long  as  he  picked  from  the  filth  his  prog? 
He  saw  youth,  beauty  and  genius  die. 


BIFURCATION-. 


237 


And  jollily  lived  to  his  hundredth  year. 
But  I  will  live  otherwise:  none  of  such  life! 

At  once  I  begin  as  I  mean  to  end. 
Go  on  with  the  world,  get  gold  in  its  strife, 

Give  your  spouse  the  slip  and  betray  your  friend! 
There  are  two  who  decline,  a  woman  and  I, 

And  enjoy  our  death  in  the  darkness  here.  120 

XI. 

I  liked  that  way  you  had  with  your  curls 

Wound  to  a  ball  in  a  net  behind : 
Your  cheek  was  chaste  as  a  quaker-girl's 

And  your  mouth  —  there  was  never,  to  my  mind, 
Such  a  funny  mouth,  for  it  would  not  shut ; 

And  the  dented  chin  too  —  what  a  chin! 
There  were  certain  ways  when  you  spoke,  some  words 

That  you  know  you  never  could  pronounce  : 
You  were  thin,  however ;  like  a  bird's 

Your  hand  seemed  —  some  would  say,  the  pounce         130 
Of  a  scaly-footed  hawk  —  all  but! 

The  world  was  right  when  it  called  you  thin. 

XII. 

But  I  turn  my  back  on  the  world :  I  take 

Your  hand,  and  kneel,  and  lay  to  my  lips. 
Bid  me  live,  Edith !     Let  me  slake 

Thirst  at  your  presence !     Fear  no  slips ! 
'T  is  your  slave  shall  pay,  while  his  soul  endures, 

Full  due,  love's  whole  debt,  summum  jus . 
My  queen  shall  have  high  observance,  planned 

Courtship  made  perfect,  no  least  line  140 

Crossed  without  warrant.     There  you  stand, 

Warm  too,  and  white  too :  would  this  wine 
Had  washed  all  over  that  body  of  yours, 

Ere  I  drank  it,  and  you  down  with  it,  thus! 


BIFURCATION. 

WE  were  two  lovers ;  let  me  lie  by  her, 
My  tomb  beside  her  tomb.     On  hers  inscribe  — 
"  I  loved  him ;  but  my  reason  bade  prefer 
Duty  to  love,  reject  the  tempters  bribe 
Of  rose  and  lily  when  each  path  diverged, 


238  A  LIKENESS. 

And  either  I  must  pace  to  life's  far  end 

As  love  should  lead  me,  or,  as  duty  urged, 

Plod  the  worn  causeway  arm  in  arm  with  friend. 

So,  truth  turned  falsehood :  '  How  I  loathe  a  flower, 

How  prize  the  pavement! '  still  caressed  his  ear—  lo 

The  deafish  friend's  —  thro1  life's  day,  hour  by  hour, 

As  he  laughed  (coughing)  '  Ay,  it  would  appear! ' 

But  deep  within  my  heart  of  hearts  there  hid 

Ever  the  confidence,  amends  for  all, 

That  heaven  repairs  what  wrong  earth's  journey  did, 

When  love  from  life-long  exile  comes  at  call. 

Duty  and  love,  one  broad  way,  were  the  best  — 

Who  doubts?     But  one  or  other  was  to  choose. 

I  chose  the  darkling  half,  and  wait  the  rest 

In  that  new  world  where  light  and  darkness  fuse."  20 

Inscribe  on  mine  —  "I  loved  her :  love's  track  lay 

O'er  sand  and  pebble,  as  all  travelers  know. 

Duty  led  thro'  a  smiling  country,  gay 

With  greensward  where  the  rose  and  lily  blow. 

'  Our  roads  are  diverse :  farewell,  love ! '  said  she : 

1  'T  is  duty  I  abide  by :  homely  sward 

And  not  the  rock-rough  picturesque  for  me! 

Above,  where  both  roads  join,  I  wait  reward. 

Be  you  as  constant  to  the  path  whereon 

I  leave  you  planted! '     But  man  needs  must  move,  30 

Keep  moving  —  whither,  when  the  star  is  gone 

Whereby  he  steps  secure  nor  strays  from  love  ? 

No  stone  but  I  was  tripped  by,  stumbling-block 

But  brought  me  to  confusion.     Where  I  fell, 

There  I  lay  flat,  if  moss  disguised  the  rock : 

Thence,  if  flint  pierced,  I  rose  and  cried  '  All 's  well! 

Duty  be  mine  to  tread  in  that  high  sphere 

Where  love  from  duty  ne'er  disparts,  I  trust, 

And  two  halves  make  that  whole,  whereof —  since  here 

One  must  suffice  a  man  — why,  this  one  must! '  "  40 

Inscribe  each  tomb  thus :  then,  some  sage  acquaint 
The  simple  —  which  holds  sinner,  which  holds  saint! 


A   LIKENESS. 

SOME  people  hang  portraits  up 
In  a  room  where  they  dine  or  sup : 
And  the  wife  clinks  tea-things  under, 


A  LIKENESS. 


239 


And  her  cousin,  he  stirs  his  cup, 

Asks,  "Who  was  the  lady,  I  wonder?  "   . 

"  'T  is  a  daub  John  bought  at  a  sale," 

Quoth  the  wife,  —  looks  black  as  thunder  i 

"  What  a  shade  beneath  her  nose! 

Snuff-taking,  I  suppose,  —  " 

Adds  the  cousin,  while  John's  corns  ail.  10 

Or  else,  there  's  no  wife  in  the  case, 

But  the  portrait 's  queen  of  the  place, 

Alone  mid  the  other  spoils 

Of  youth,  —  masks,  gloves  and  foils, 

And  pipe-sticks,  rose,  cherry-tree,  jasmine, 

And  the  long  whip,  the  tandem-lasher, 

And  the  cast  from  a  fist,  ("  not,  alas !  mine, 

But  my  master's,  the  Tipton  Slasher  ") 

And  the  cards  where  pistol-balls  mark  ace, 

And  a  satin  shoe  used  for  cigar-case,  20 

And  the  chamois-horns  ("  shot  in  the  Chablais  ") 

And  prints  —  Rarey  drumming  on  Cruiser, 

And  Sayers,  our  champion,  the  bruiser, 

And  the  little  edition  of  Rabelais  : 

Where  a  friend,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets 

May  saunter  up  close  to  examine  it, 

And  remark  a  good  deal  of  Jane  Lamb  in  it, 

"  But  the  eyes  are  half  out  of  their  sockets  ; 

That  hair  's  not  so  bad,  where  the  gloss  is, 

But  they  Ve  made  the  girl's  nose  a  proboscis :  30 

Jane  Lamb,  that  we  danced  with  at  Vichy! 

What,  is  not  she  Jane?     Then,  who  is  she?" 

All  that  I  own  is  a  print, 

An  etching,  a  mezzotint ; 

'T  is  a  study,  a  fancy,  a  fiction, 

Yet  a  fact  (take  my  conviction) 

Because  it  has  more  than  a  hint 

Of  a  certain  face,  I  never 

Saw  elsewhere  touch  or  trace  of 

In  women  I  Ve  seen  the  face  of:  40 

Just  an  etching,  and,  so  far,  clever. 

I  keep  my  prints,  an  imbroglio, 
Fifty  in  one  portfolio. 
When  somebody  tries  my  claret, 
We  turn  round  chairs  to  the  fire, 
Chirp  over  days  in  a  garret, 
Chuckle  o'er  increase  of  salary, 
Taste  the  good  fruits  of  our  leisure, 


240  MAY  AND  DEATH. 

Talk  about  pencil  and  lyre, 

And  the  National  Portrait  Gallery :  50 

Then  I  exhibit  my  treasure. 

After  we  've  turned  over  twenty, 

And  the  debt  of  wonder  my  crony  owes 

Is  paid  to  my  Marc  Antonios, 

He  stops  me  —  " Festina  lentil 

What 's  that  sweet  thing  there,  the  etching?" 

How  my  waistcoat -strings  want  stretching, 

How  my  cheeks  grow  red  as  tomatoes, 

How  my  heart  leaps!     But  hearts,  after  leaps,  ache. 

"  By  the  by,  you  must  take,  for  a  keepsake,  60 

That  other,  you  praised,  of  Volpato's." 

The  fool!  would  he  try  a  flight  further  and  say  — 

He  never  saw,  never  before  to-day,  , 

What  was  able  to  take  his  breath  away, 

A  ftce  to  lose  youth  for,  to  occupy  age 

With  the  dream  of,  meet  death  with,  —  why,  I  '11  not  engage 

But  that,  half  in  a  rapture  and  half  in  a  rage, 

I  should  toss  him  the  thing's  self  —  "  'T  is  only  a  duplicate, 

A  thing  of  no  value!     Take  it,  I  supplicate! " 


MAY  AND   DEATH. 
I. 

I  WISH  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 
Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things ; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

n. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 

in. 

So,  for  their  sake,  be  May  still  May! 

Let  their  new  time,  as  mine  of  old,  IO 

Do  all  it  did  for  me  :  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  throng  manifold. 


A  FORGIVENESS. 


IV. 


241 


Only,  one  little  sight,  one  plant, 

Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 
Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between,— 


v. 


That,  they  might  spare ;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant :  their  loss  were  small : 

But  I,  —  whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that 's  all.  20 


A  FORGIVENESS. 

I  AM  indeed  the  personage  you  know. 
As  for  my  wife,  —  what  happened  long  ago  — 
You  have  a  right  to  question  me,  as  I 
Am  bound  to  answer. 

("Son,  a  fit  reply!" 

The  monk  half  spoke,  half  ground  thro1  his  clenched  teeth, 
At  the  confession-grate  I  knelt  beneath.) 

Thus  then  all  happened,  Father!     Power  and  place 

I  had  as  still  I  have.     I  ran  life's  race, 

With  the  whole  world  to  see,  as  only  strains 

His  strength  some  athlete  whose  prodigious  gains  10 

Of  good  appal  him  :  happy  to  excess,  — 

Work  freely  done  should  balance  happiness 

Fully  enjoyed ;  and,  since  beneath  my  roof 

Housed  she  who  made  home  heaven,  in  heaven's  behoof 

I  went  forth  every  day,  and  all  day  long 

Worked  for  the  world.     Look,  how  the  labourer's  song 

Cheers  him !     Thus  sang  my  soul,  at  each  sharp  throe 

Of  labouring  flesh  and  blood  —  "  She  loves  me  so!" 

One  day,  perhaps  such  song  so  knit  the  nerve 

That  work  grew  play  and  vanished.     "  I  deserve  20 

Haply  my  heaven  an  hour  before  the  time!  " 

I  laughed,  as  silverly  the  clockhouse-chime 

Surprised  me  passing  thro'  the  postern-gate 

—  Not  the  main  entry  where  the  menials  wait 

And  wonder  why  the  world's  affairs  allow 


242  A   FORGIVENESS. 

TTie  master  sudden  leisure.     That  was  how 
I  took  the  private  garden-way  for  once. 

Forth  from  the  alcove,  I  saw  start,  ensconce 
Himself  behind  the  porphyry  vase,  a  man. 

My  fancies  in  the  natural  order  ran :  30 

"  A  spy,  —  perhaps  a  foe  in  ambuscade,  — 

A  thief,  —  more  like,  a  sweetheart  of  some  maid 

Who  pitched  on  the  alcove  for  tryst  perhaps." 

"Stand  there!"     Ibid. 

Whereat  my  man  but  wraps 
His  face  the  closelier  with  uplifted  arm 
Whereon  the  cloak  lies,  strikes  in  blind  alarm 
This  and  that  pedestal  as,  —  stretch  and  stoop,  — 
Now  in,  now  out  of  sight,  he  thrids  the  group 
Of  statues,  marble  god  and  goddess  ranged 
Each  side  the  pathway,  till  the  gate 's  exchanged  40 

For  safety :  one  step  thence,  the  street,  you  know  ! 

Thus  far  I  followed  with  my  gaze.     Then,  slow, 

Near  on  admiringly,  I  breathed  again, 

And  —  back  to  that  last  fancy  of  the  train  — 

"  A  danger  risked  for  hope  of  just  a  word 

With  —  which  of  all  my  nest  may  be  the  bird 

This  poacher  covets  for  her  plumage,  pray? 

Carmen?    Juana?     Carmen  seems  too  gay 

For  such  adventure,  while  Juana  's  grave 

—  Would  scorn  the  folly.     I  applaud  the  knave  !  5° 

He  had  the  eye,  could  single  from  my  brood 

His  proper  fledgeling  !  " 

As  I  turned,  there  stood 
In  face  of  me,  my  wife  stone-still  stone-white. 
Whether  one  bound  had  brought  her,  —  at  first  sight 
Of  what  she  judged  the  encounter,  sure  to  be 
Next  moment,  of  the  venturous  man  and  me,  — 
Brought  her  to  clutch  and  keep  me  from  my  prey : 
Whether  impelled  because  her  death  no  day- 
Could  come  so  absolutely  opportune 

As  now  at  joy's  height,  like  a  year  in  June  60 

Stayed  at  the  fall  of  its  first  ripened  rose ; 
Or  whether  hungry  for  my  hate — who  knows?  — 
Eager  to  end  an  irksome  lie,  and  taste 
Our  tingling  true  relation,  hate  embraced 
By  hate  one  naked  moment :  —  anyhow 


A   FORGIVENESS.  243 

There  stone-still  stone-white  stood  my  wife,  but  now 
The  woman  who  made  heaven  within  my  house. 
Ay,  she  who  faced  me  was  my  very  spouse 
As  well  as  love  —  you  are  to  recollect ! 

"  Stay  !  "  she  said.     "Keep  at  least  one  soul  unspecked     70 

With  crime,  that  's  spotless  hitherto  —  your  own  ! 

Kill  me  who  court  the  blessing,  who  alone 

Was,  am  and  shall  be  guilty,  first  to  last ! 

The  man  lay  helpless  in  the  toils  I  cast 

About  him,  helpless  as  the  statue  there 

Against  that  strangling  bell-flower's  bondage :  tear 

Away  and  tread  to  dust  the  parasite, 

But  do  the  passive  marble  no  despite  ! 

I  love  him  as  I  hate  you.     Kill  me  !     Strike 

At  one  blow  both  infinitudes  alike  80 

Out  of  existence  —  hate  and  love  !     Whence  love? 

That 's  safe  inside  my  heart,  nor  will  remove 

For  any  searching  of  your  steel,  I  think. 

Whence  hate?     The  secret  lay  on  lip,  at  brink 

Of  speech,  in  one  fierce  tremble  to  escape, 

At  every  form  wherein  your  love  took  shape, 

At  each  new  provocation  of  your  kiss, 

Kill  me  ! " 

We  went  in. 

Next  day  after  this, 

I  felt  as  if  the  speech  might  come.     I  spoke  — 
Easily,  after  all. 

"  The  lifted  cloak  90 

Was  screen  sufficient :  I  concern  myself 
Hardly  with  laying  hands  on  who  for  pelf — 
Whate'er  the  ignoble  kind  —  may  prowl  and  brave 
Cuffing  and  kicking  proper  to  a  knave 
Detected  by  my  household's  vigilance. 
Enough  of  such  !     As  for  my  love-romance  — 
I,  like  our  good  Hidalgo,  rub  my  eyes 
And  wake  and  wonder  how  the  film  could  rise 
Which  changed  for  me  a  barber's  basin  straight 
Into  —  Mambrino's  helm?     I  hesitate  loo 

Nowise  to  say  —  God's  sacramental  cup  ! 
Why  should  I  blame  the  brass  which,  burnished  up, 
Will  blaze,  to  all  but  me,  as  good  as  gold  ? 
To  me — -a  warning  I  was  overbold 
In  judging  metals.     The  Hidalgo  waked 
Only  to  die,  if  I  remember,  —  staked 


244  A  FORGIVEN'ESS- 

His  life  upon  the  basin's  worth,  and  lost : 

While  I  confess  torpidity  at  most 

In  here  and  there  a  limb  ;  but,  lame  and  halt, 

Still  should  I  work  on,  still  repair  my  fault  1 10 

Ere  I  took  rest  in  death,  —  no  fear  at  all ! 

Now,  work —  no  word  before  the  curtain  fall !  " 

The  "  curtain  "  ?     That  of  death  on  life,  I  meant : 
My  "  word  "  permissible  in  death's  event. 
Would  be  —  truth,  soul  to  soul ;  for,  otherwise, 
Day  by  day,  three  years  long,  there  had  to  rise 
And,  night  by  night,  to  fall  upon  our  stage  — 
Ours,  doomed  to  public  play  by  heritage  — 
Another  curtain,  when  the  world,  perforce 
Our  critical  assembly,  in  due  course  120 

Came  and  went,  witnessing,  gave  praise  or  blame 
To  art-mimetic.     It  had  spoiled  the  game 
If.  suffered  to  set  foot  behind  our  scene. 
The  world  had  witnessed  how  stage-king  and  queen, 
Gallant  and  lady,  but  a  minute  since 
Enarming  each  the  other,  would  evince 
No  sign  of  recognition  as  they  took 
His  way  and  her  way  to  whatever  nook 
Waited  them  in  the  darkness  either  side 
Of  that  bright  stage  where  lately  groom  and  bride  130 

Had  fired  the  audience  to  a  frenzy-fit 
Of  sympathetic  rapture  —  every  whit 
Earned  as  the  curtain  fell  on  her  and  me, 
—  Actors.     Three  whole  years,  nothing  was  to  see 
But  calm  and  concord :  where  a  speech  was  due 
There  came  the  speech ;  when  smiles  were  wanted  too 
Smiles  were  as  ready.     In  a  place  like  mine, 
Where  foreign  and  domestic  cares  combine, 
There  's  audience  every  day  and  all  day  long : 
But  finally  the  last  of  the  whole  throng  140 

Who  linger  lets  one  see  his  back.     For  her  — 
Why,  liberty  and  liking :  I  aver, 
Liking  and  liberty  !     For  me  —  I  breathed, 
Let  my  face  rest  from  every  wrinkle  wreathed 
Smile-like  about  the  mouth,  unlearned  my  task 
Of  personation  till  next  day  bade  mask, 
And  quietly  betook  me  from  that  world 
To  the  real  world,  not  pageant :  there  unfurled 
In  work,  its  wings,  my  soul,  the  fretted  power. 
Three  years  I  worked,  each  minute  of  each  hour  150 

Not  claimed  by  acting :  —  work  I  may  dispense 
With  talk  about,  since  work  in  evidence, 
Perhaps  in  history ;  who  knows  or  cares? 


A  FORGIVENESS. 


245 


After  three  years,  this  way,  all  unawares, 

Our  acting  ended.     She  and  I,  at  close 

Of  a  loud  night-least,  led,  between  two  rows 

Of  bending  male  and  female  loyalty, 

Our  lord  the  king  down  staircase,  while,  held  high 

At  arm's  length  did  the  twisted  tapers'  flare 

Herald  his  passage  from  our  palace  where  160 

Such  visiting  left  glory  evermore. 

Again  the  ascent  in  public,  till  at  door 

As  we  two  stood  by  the  saloon  —  now  blank 

And  disencumbered  of  its  guests  —  there  sank 

A  whisper  in  my  ear,  so  low  and  yet 

So  unmistakable  ! 

« I  half  forget 

The  chamber  you  repair  to,  and  I  want 
Occasion  for  one  short  word  —  if  you  grant 
That  grace  —  within  a  certain  room  you  called 
Our  '  Study, "*  for  you  wrote  there  while  I  scrawled  170 

Some  paper  full  of  faces  for  my  sport. 
That  room  I  can  remember.     Just  one  short 
Word  with  you  there,  for  the  remembrance'  sake  ! " 

"  Follow  me  thither ! "  I  replied. 

We  break 

The  gloom  a  little,  as  with  guiding  lamp 
I  lead  the  way,  leave  warmth  and  cheer,  by  damp 
Blind  disused  serpentining  ways  afar 
From  where  the  habitable  chambers  are,  — 
Ascend,  descend  stairs  tunneled  thro'  the  stone, — 
Always  in  silence,  —  till  I  reach  the  lone  180 

Chamber  sepulchred  for  my  very  own 
Out  of  the  palace-quarry.     When  a  boy, 
Here  was  my  fortress,  stronghold  from  annoy, 
Proof-positive  of  ownership  ;  in  youth 
I  garnered  up  my  gleanings  here  —  uncouth 
But  precious  relics  of  vain  hopes,  vain  fears ; 
Finally,  this  became  in  after  years 
My  closet  of  entrenchment  to  withstand 
Invasion  of  the  foe  on  every  hand  — 

The  multifarious  herd  in  bower  and  hall,  190 

State-room,  —  rooms  whatsoe'er  the  style,  which  call 
On  masters  to  be  mindful  that,  before 
Men,  they  must  look  like  men  and  something  more. 
Here,  —  when  our  lord  the  king's  bestowment  ceased 
To  deck  me  on  the  day  that,  golden-fleeced, 
I  touched  ambition's  height,  —  't  was  here,  released 


246 


A  FORGIVENESS. 

From  glory  (always  symboled  by  a  chain  !) 

No  sooner  was  I  privileged  to  gain 

My  secret  domicile  than  glad  1  flung 

That  last  toy  on  the  table  —  gazed  where  hung  200 

On  hook  my  father's  gift,  the  arquebus  — 

And  asked  myself  "  Shall  I  envisage  thus 

The  new  prize  and  the  old  prize,  when  I  reach 

Another  year's  experience? —  own  that  each 

Equaled  advantage —  sportsman's  —  statesman's  tool? 

That  brought  me  down  an  eagle,  this  —  a  fool  !" 

Into  which  room  on  entry,  I  set  down 

The  lamp,  and.  turning  saw  whose  rustled  gown 

Had  told  me  my  wife  followed,  pace  for  pace. 

Each  of  us  looked  the  other  in  the  face.  210 

She  spoke.     "  Since  I  could  die  now  ..." 

(To  explain 

Why  that  first  struck  me,  know  —  not  once  again 
Since  the  adventure  at  the  porphyry's  edge 
Three  years  before,  which  sundered  like  a  wedge 
Her  soul  from  mine,  —  tho:  daily,  smile  to  smile, 
We  stood  before  the  public,  —  all  the  while 
Not  once  had  I  distinguished,  in  that  face 
I  paid  observance  to,  the  faintest  trace 
Of  feature  more  than  requisite  for  eyes 
To  do  their  duty  by  and  recognize  :  220 

So  did  I  force  mine  to  obey  my  will 
And  pry  no  further.     There  exists  such  skill, — 
Those  know  who  need  it.     What  physician  shrinks 
From  needful  contact  with  a  corpse?     He  drinks 
No  plague  so  long  as  thirst  for  knowledge,  —  not 
An  idler  impulse,  —  prompts  inquiry.     What, 
And  will  you  disbelieve  in  power  to  bid 
Our  spirit  back  to  bounds,  as  tho:  we  chid 
A  child  from  scrutiny  that 's  just  and  right 
In  manhood?     Sense,  not  soul,  accomplished  sight,         230 
Reported  daily  she  it  was  —  not  how 
Nor  why  a  change  had  come  to  cheek  and  brow.) 

"  Since  I  could  die  now  of  the  truth  concealed, 

Yet  dare  not,  must  not  die,  —  so  seems  revealed 

The  Virgin's  mind  to  me,  —  for  death  means  peace, 

Wherein  no  lawful  part  have  I,  whose  lease 

Of  life  and  punishment  the  truth  avowed 

May  haply  lengthen,  —  let  me  push  the  shroud 

Away,  that  steals  to  muffle  ere  is  just 

My  penance-fire  in  snow  !     I  dare  —  I  must  240 


A  FORGIVENESS.  24? 

Live,  by  avowal  of  the  truth  —  this  truth  — 

I  loved  you  !     Thanks  for  the  fresh  serpent's  tooth 

That,  by  a  prompt  new  pang  more  exquisite 

Than  all  preceding  torture,  proves  me  right  ! 

I  loved  you  yet  I  lost  you  !     May  I  go 

Burn  to  the  ashes,  now  my  shame  you  know?" 

I  think  there  never  was  such  —  how  express?  — 

Horror  coquetting  with  voluptuousness, 

As  in  those  arms  of  Eastern  workmanship  — 

Yataghan,  kandjar,  things  that  rend  and  rip,  250 

Gash  rough,  slash  smooth,  help  hate  so  many  ways, 

Yet  ever  keep  a  beauty  that  betrays 

Love  still  at  work  with  the  artificer 

Throughout  his  quaint  devising.     Why  prefer. 

Except  for  love's  sake,  that  a  blade  should  writhe 

And  bicker  like  a  flame?  —  now  play  the  scythe 

As  if  some  broad  neck  tempted,  —  now  contract 

And  needle  off  into  a  fineness  lacked 

For  just  that  puncture  which  the  heart  demands? 

Then,  such  adornment  !     Wherefore  need  our  hands  260 

Enclose  not  ivory  alone,  nor  gold 

Roughened  for  use,  but  jewels?     Nay,  behold  ! 

Fancy  my  favourite  —  which  I  seem  to  grasp 

While  I  describe  the  luxury.     No  asp 

Is  diapered  more  delicate  round  throat 

Than  this  below  the  handle  !     These  denote 

—  These  mazy  lines  meandering,  to  end 

Only  in  flesh  they  open  —  what  intend 

They  else  but  water-purlings  —  pale  contrast 

With  the  life-crimson  where  they  blend  at  last  ?  270 

And  mark  the  handle's  dim  pellucid  green, 

Carved,  the  hard  jadestone,  as  you  pinch  a  bean, 

Into  a  sort  of  parrot-bird  !     He  pecks 

A  grape-bunch  ;  his  two  eyes  are  ruby-specks 

Pure  from  the  mine  :  seen  this  way,  —  glassy  blank, 

But  turn  them,  —  lo  the  inmost  fire,  that  shrank 

From  sparkling,  sends  a  red  dart  right  to  aim  ! 

Why  did  I  choose  such  toys?     Perhaps  the  game 

Of  peaceful  men  is  warlike,  just  as  men 

War-wearied  get  amusement  from  that  pen  280 

And  paper  we  grow  sick  of — statesfolk  tired 

Of  merely  (when  such  measures  are  required) 

Dealing  out  doom  to  people  by  three  words, 

A  signature  and  seal :  we  play  with  swords 

Suggestive  of  quick  process.     That  is  how 

I  came  to  like  the  toys  described  you  now, 

Store  of  which  glittered  on  the  walls  and  strewed 


248  A  FORGIVENESS. 

The  table,  even,  while  my  wife  pursued 

Her  purpose  to  its  ending.     "  Now  you  know 

This  shame,  my  three  years1  torture,  let  me  go,  —  290 

Burn  to  the  very  ashes !     You  —  I  lost, 

Yet  you  —  I  loved  !  " 

The  thing  I  pity  most 
In  men  is  —  action  prompted  by  surprise 
Of  anger :  men  ?  nay,  bulls  —  whose  onset  lies 
At  instance  of  the  firework  and  the  goad  ! 
Once  the  foe  prostrate,  —  trampling  once  bestowed, — 
Prompt  follows  placability,  regret, 
Atonement.     Trust  me,  blood-warmth  never  yet 
Betokened  strong  will !     As  no  leap  of  pulse 
Pricked  me,  that  first  time,  so  did  none  convulse  300 

My  veins  at  this  occasion  for  resolve. 
Had  that  devolved  which  did  not  then  devolve 
Upon  me,  I  had  done — what  now  to  do 
Was  quietly  apparent. 

"  Tell  me  who 
The  man  was,  crouching  by  the  porphyry  vase !" 

"  No,  never !    All  was  folly  in  his  case, 
All  guilt  in  mine.     I  tempted,  he  complied." 

"  And  yet  you  loved  me  ?  " 

"  Loved  you.     Double-dyed 
In  folly  and  in  guilt,  I  thought  you  gave 

Your  heart  and  soul  away  from  me  to  slave  310 

At  statecraft.     Since  my  right  in  you  seemed  lost, 
I  stung  myself  to  teach  you,  to  your  cost, 
What  you  rejected  could  be  prized  beyond 
Life,  heaven,  by  the  first  fool  I  threw  a  fond 
Look  on,  a  fatal  word  to." 

"  And  you  still 
Love  me  ?     Do  I  conjecture  well  or  ill?  " 

"Conjecture — well  or  ill  !     I  had  three  years 
To  spend  in  learning  you." 

"We  both  are  peers 

In  knowledge,  therefore :  since  three  years  are  spent 
Ere  thus  much  of  yourself  /  learn  —  who  went  320 

Back  to  the  house,  that  day,  and  brought  my  mind 
To  bear  upon  your  action  :  uncombined 


A  FORGIVENESS.  249 

Motive  from  motive,  till  the  dross,  deprived 

Of  every  purer  particle,  survived 

At  last  in  native  simple  hideousness, 

Utter  contemptibility,  nor  less 

Nor  more.     Contemptibility  —  exempt 

How  could  I,  from  its  proper  due  —  contempt? 

I  have  too  much  despised  you  to  divert 

My  life  from  its  set  course  by  help  or  hurt  330 

Of  your  all-despicable  life  —  perturb 

The  calm  I  work  in,  by  —  men's  mouths  to  curb, 

Which  at  such  news  were  clamorous  enough  — 

Men's  eyes  to  shut  before  my  broidered  stuff 

With  the  huge  hole  there,  my  emblazoned  wall 

Blank  where  a  scutcheon  hung,  —  by,  worse  than  all, 

Each  day's  procession,  my  paraded  life 

Robbed  and  impoverished  thro'  the  wanting  wife 

—  Now  that  my  life  (which  means  —  my  work)  was  grown 
Riches  indeed !     Once,  just  this  worth  alone  340 
Seemed  work  to  have,  that  profit  gained  thereby     . 

Of  good  and  praise  would  —  how  rewardingly!  — 

Fall  at  your  feet,  —  a  crown  I  hoped  to  cast 

Before  your  love,  my  love  should  crown  at  last. 

No  love  remaining  to  cast  crown  before, 

My  love  stopped  work  now :  but  contempt  the  more 

Impelled  me  task  as  ever  head  and  hand, 

Because  the  very  fiends  weave  ropes  of  sand 

Rather  than  taste  pure  hell  in  idleness. 

Therefore  I  kept  my  memory  down  by  stress  350 

Of  daily  work  I  had  no  mind  to  stay 

For  the  world's  wonder  at  the  wife  away. 

Oh,  it  was  easy  all  of  it,  believe, 

For  I  despised  you  !     But  your  words  retrieve 

Importantly  the  past.     No  hate  assumed 

The  mask  of  love  at  any  time  !     There  gloomed 

A  moment  when  love  took  hate's  semblance,  urged 

By  causes  you  declare  ;  but  love's  self  purged 

Away  a  fancied  wrong  I  did  both  loves 

—  Yours  and  my  own ;  by  no  hate's  help,  it  proves  360 
Purgation  was  attempted.     Then,  you  rise 

High  by  how  many  a  grade  !     I  did  despise  — 
I  do  but  hate  you.     Let  hate's  punishment 
Replace  contempt's !     First  step  to  which  ascent  — 
Write  down  your  own  words  I  re-utter  you ! 
'  /  loved  my  husband  and  I  hated —  who 
He  was,  I  took  up  as  my  first  chance,  mere 
Mud-ball  to  fling  and  make  love  foul  with ! '     Here 
Lies  paper ! " 


A   FORGIVENESS. 
"  Would  my  blood  for  ink  suffice ! " 

"  It  may  :  this  minion  from  a  land  of  spice,  370 

Silk,  feather —  every  bird  of  jeweled  breast  — 
This  poignard's  beauty,  ne'er  so  lightly  prest 
Above  your  heart  there.".  .  . 

"Thus?" 

"  It  flows,  I  see. 
Dip  there  the  point  and  write !  " 

"  Dictate  to  me! 

Nay,  I  remember." 

And  she  wrote  the  words. 

I  read  them.     Then  —  "  Since  love,  in  you,  affords 
License  for  hate,  in  me,  to  quench  (I  say) 
Contempt  —  why,  hate  itself  has  passed  away 
In  vengeance  —  foreign  to  contempt.     Depart 
Peacefully  to  that  death  which  Eastern  art  380 

Imbued  this  weapon  with,  if  tales  be  true  ! 
Love  will  succeed  to  hate.     I  pardon  you  — 
Dead  in  our  chamber  ! " 

True  as  truth  the  tale. 

She  died  ere  morning ;  then,  I  saw  how  pale 
Her  cheek  was  ere  it  wore  day's  paint-disguise, 
And  what  a  hollow  darkened  'neath  her  eyes, 
Now  that  I  used  my  own.     She  sleeps,  as  erst 
Beloved,  in  this  your  church  :  ay,  yours  ! 

Immersed 

In  thought  so  deeply,  Father  ?     Sad,  perhaps? 
For  whose  sake,  hers  or  mine  or  his  who  wraps  390 

—  Still  plain  I  seem  to  see  !  —  about  his  head 
The  idle  cloak, — about  his  heart  (instead 
Of  cuirass)  some  fond  hope  he  may  elude 
My  vengeance  in  the  cloister's  solitude? 
Hardly,  I  think  !     As  little  helped  his  brow 
The  cloak  then,  Father  —  as  your  grate  helps  now  ! 


CENCIAJA.  251 

CENCIAJA. 
Ogni  cencio  vuol  enlrare  in  bucato.  — Italian  Proverb. 

MAY  I  print,  Shelley,  how  it  came  to  pass 
That  when  your  Beatrice  seemed  —  by  lapse 
Of  many  a  long  month  since  her  sentence  fell  — 
Assured  of  pardon  for  the  parricide,  — 
By  intercession  of  staunch  friends,  or  say, 
By  certain  pricks  of  conscience  in  the  Pope, 
Conniver  at  Francesco  Cenci's  guilt,  — 
Suddenly  all  things  changed  and  Clement  grew 
"  Stern,"  as  you  state,  "  nor  to  be  moved  nor  bent, 
But  said  these  three  words  coldly  '•She  must  die;"1  10 

Subjoining  '  Pardon  f    Paolo  Santa  Croce 
Murdered  his  mother  also  y  ester  eve, 
And  he  is  fled:  she  shall  not  flee,  at  least ."  " 
—  So,  to  the  letter,  sentence  was  fulfilled  ? 
Shelley,  may  I  condense  verbosity 
That  lies  before  me,  into  some  few  words 
Of  English,  and  illustrate  your  superb 
Achievement  by  a  rescued  anecdote, 
No  great  things,  only  new  and  true  beside? 
As  if  some  mere  familiar  of  a  house  2O 

Should  venture  to  accost  the  group  at  gaze 
Before  its  Titian,  famed  the  wide  world  through, 
And  supplement  such  pictured  masterpiece 
By  whisper  "  Searching  in  the  archives  here, 
I  found  the  reason  of  the  Lady's  fate, 
And  how  by  accident  it  came  to  pass 
She  wears  the  halo  and  displays  the  palm : 
Who,  haply,  else  had  never  suffered  —  no, 
Nor  graced  our  gallery,  by  consequence." 

Who  loved  the  work  would  like  the  little  news :  30 

Who  lauds  your  poem  lends  an  ear  to  me 
Relating  how  the  penalty  was  paid 
By  one  Marchese  dell'  Oriolo,  called 
Onofrio  Santa  Croce  otherwise, 
For  his  complicity  in  matricide 
With  Paolo  his  own  brother,  —  he  whose  crime 
And  flight  induced  "  those  three  words —  She  must  die." 
Thus  I  unroll  you  then  the  manuscript. 

"  God's  justice  "  —  (of  the  multiplicity 

Of  such  communications  extant  still,  4° 

Recording,  each,  injustice  done  by  God 
In  person  of  his  Vicar-upon-earth, 


252  CENCIAJA. 

Scarce  one  but  leads  off  to  the  self-same  tune)  — 
"God's  justice,  tardy  tho'  it  prove  perchance, 
Rests  never  on  the  track  until  it  reach 
Delinquency.     In  proof  I  cite  the  case 
Of  Paolo  Santa  Croce." 

Many  times 

The  youngster,  —  having  been  importunate 
That  Marchesine  Costanza,  who  remained 
His  widowed  mother,  should  supplant  the  heir  50 

Her  elder  son,  and  substitute  himself 
In  sole  possession  of  her  faculty, — 
And  meeting  just  as  often  with  rebuff,  — 
Blinded  by  so  exorbitant  a  lust 
Of  gold,  the  youngster  straightway  tasked  his  wits, 
Casting  about  to  kill  the  lady  —  thus. 

He  first,  to  cover  his  iniquity, 
Writes  to  Onofrio  Santa  Croce,  then 
Authoritative  lord,  acquainting  him 

Their  mother  was  contamination  —  wrought  60 

Like  hell-fire  in  the  beaut}'  of  their  House 
By  dissoluteness  and  abandonment 
Of  soul  and  body  to  impure  delight. 
Moreover,  since  she  suffered  from  disease, 
Those  symptoms  which  her  death  made  manifest 
Hydroptic,  he  affirmed  were  fruits  of  sin 
About  to  bring  confusion  and  disgrace 
Upon  the  ancient  lineage  and  high  fame 
O'  the  family,  when  published.     Duty-bound, 
He  asked  his  brother  —  what  a  son  should  do  ?  70 

Which  when  Marchese  dell1  Oriolo  heard 
By  letter,  being  absent  at  his  land 
Oriolo,  he  made  answer,  this,  no  more : 
"It  must  behove  a  son,  —  things  haply  so, — 
To  act  as  honour  prompts  a  cavalier 
And  son,  perform  his  duty  to  all  three, 
Mother  and  brothers"  —  here  advice  broke  off. 

By  which  advice  informed  and  fortified 
As  he  professed  himself — as  bound  by  birth 
To  hear  God's  voice  in  primogeniture —  80 

Paolo,  who  kept  his  mother  company 
In  her  domain  Subiaco,  straightway  dared 
His  whole  enormity  of  enterprise 
And,  falling  on  her,  stabbed  the  lady  dead ; 
Whose  death  demonstrated  her  innocence, 


CENCFAJA.  253 

And  happened,  —  by  the  way,  —  since  Jesus  Christ 

Died  to  save  man,  just  sixteen  hundred  years. 

Costanza  was  of  aspect  beautiful 

Exceedingly,  and  seemed,  altho'  in  age 

Sixty  about,  to  far  surpass  her  peers  90 

The  coetaneous  dames,  in  youth  and  grace. 

Done  the  misdeed,  its  author  takes  to  flight, 
Foiling  thereby  the  justice  of  the  world  : 
Not  God's  however,  —  God,  be  sure,  knows  well 
The  way  to  clutch  a  culprit.     Witness  here  ! 
The  present  sinner,  when  he  leasts  expects, 
Snug-cornered  somewhere  i1  the  Basilicate, 
Stumbles  upon  his  death  by  violence. 
A  man  of  blood  assaults  a  man  of  blood 
And  slays  him  somehow.     This  was  afterward :  100 

Enough,  he  promptly  met  with  his  deserts, 
And,  ending  thus,  permits  we  end  with  him, 
And  push  forthwith  to  this  important  point  — 
His  matricide  fell  out,  of  all  the  days, 
Precisely  when  the  law-procedure  closed 
Respecting  Count  Francesco  Cenci's  death 
Chargeable  on  his  daughter,  sons  and  wife. 
"  Thus  patricide  was  matched  with  matricide," 
A  poet  not  inelegantly  rhymed : 

Nay,  fratricide  —  those  Princes  Massimi  !  —  no 

Which  so  disturbed  the  spirit  of  the  Pope 
That  all  the  likelihood  Rome  entertained 
Of  Beatrice's  pardon  vanished  straight, 
And  she  endured  the  piteous  death. 

Now  see 

The  sequel  —  what  effect  commandment  had 
For  strict  inquiry  into  this  last  case, 
When  Cardinal  Aldobrandini  (great 
His  efficacy  —  nephew  to  the  Pope) 
Was  bidden  crush  —  ay,  tho'  his  very  hand 
Got  soil  i1  the  act  —  crime  spawning  everywhere!  120 

Because,  when  all  endeavour  had  been  used 
To  catch  the  aforesaid  Paolo,  all  in  vain  — 
"Make  perquisition"  quoth  our  Eminence, 
"  Throughout  his  now  deserted  domicile  ! 
Ransack  the  palace,  roof  and  floor,  to  find 
If  haply  any  scrap  of  writing,  hid 
In  nook  or  corner,  may  convict  —  who  knows?  — 
Brother  Onofrio  of  intelligence 
With  brother  Paolo,  as  in  brotherhood 
Is  but  too  likely :  crime  spawns  everywhere  !  "  130 


254  CENCIAJA. 

And,  every  cranny  searched  accordingly, 
There  comes  to  light  —  O  lynx-eyed  Cardinal! — 
Onofrio's  unconsidered  writing-scrap, 
The  letter  in  reply  to  Paolo's  prayer, 
The  word  of  counsel  that  —  things  proving  so, 
Paolo  should  act  the  proper  knightly  part, 
And  do  as  was  incumbent  on  a  son, 
A  brother  —  and  a  man  of  birth,  be  sure! 

Whereat  immediately  the  officers 

Proceeded  to  arrest  Onofrio  —  found  140 

At  football,  child's  play,  unaware  of  harm, 
Safe  with  his  friends,  the  Orsini,  at  their  seat 
Monte  Giordano  ;  as  he  left  the  house 
He  came  upon  the  watch  in  wait  for  him 
Set  by  the  Barigel, — was  caught  and  caged. 

News  of  which  capture  being,  that  same  hour, 
Conveyed  to  Rome,  forthwith  our  Eminence 
Commands  Taverna,  Governor  and  Judge, 
To  have  the  process  in  especial  care, 

Be,  first  to  last,  not  only  president  150 

In  person,  but  inquisitor  as  well, 
Nor  trust  the  by-work  to  a  substitute  : 
Bids  him  not,  squeamish,  keep  the  bench,  but  scrub 
The  floor  of  Justice,  so  to  speak,  —  go  try 
His  best  in  prison  with  the  criminal ; 
Promising,  as  reward  for  by-work  done 
Fairly  on  all-fours,  that,  success  obtained 
And  crime  avowed,  or  such  connivency 
With  crime  as  should  procure  a  decent  death  — 
Himself  will  humbly  beg  —  which  means,  procure —  160 

The  Hat  and  Purple  from  his  relative 
The  Pope,  and  so  repay  a  diligence 
Which,  meritorious  in  the  Cenci-case, 
Mounts  plainly  here  to  Purple  and  the  Hat ! 

Whereupon  did  my  lord  the  Governor 
So  masterfully  exercise  the  task 
Enjoined  him,  that  he,  day  by  day,  and  week 
By  week,  and  month  by  month,  from  first  to  last 
Toiled  for  the  prize :  now,  punctual  at  his  place, 
Played  Judge,  and  now,  assiduous  at  his  post,  170 

Inquisitor  —  pressed  cushion  and  scoured  plank, 
Early  and  late.     Noon's  fervour  and  night's  chill, 
Naught  moved  whom  morn  would,  purpling,  make  amends! 
So  that  observers  laughed  as,  many  a  day, 
He  left  home,  in  July  when  day  is  flame, 


CENCIAJA.  255 

Posted  to  Tordinona-prison,  plunged 

Into  a  vault  where  daylong  night  is  ice, 

There  passed  his  eight  hours  on  a  stretch,  content, 

Examining  Onofrio  :  all  the  stress 

Of  all  examination  steadily  1 80 

Converging  into  one  pin-point,  —  he  pushed 

Tentative  now  of  head  and  now  of  heart. 

As  when  the  nuthatch  taps  and  tries  the  nut 

This  side  and  that  side  till  the  kernel  sound, — 

So  did  he  press  the  sole  and  single  point 

—  What  was  the  very  meaning  of  the  phrase 
"  Do  as  beseems  an  honoured  cavalier  ?  " 

Which  one  persistent  question-torture,  —  plied 
Day  by  day,  week  by  week,  and  month  by  month, 
Morn,  noon^and  night,  —  fatigued  away  a  mind  190 

Grown  imbecile  by  darkness,  solitude, 
And  one  vivacious  memory  gnawing  there 
As  when  a  corpse  is  coffined  with  a  snake : 

—  Fatigued  Onofrio  into  what  might  seem 
Admission  that  perchance  his  judgment  groped 
So  blindly,  feeling  for  an  issue  —  aught 

With  semblance  of  an  issue  from  the  toils 

Cast  of  a  sudden  round  feet  late  so  free, 

He  possibly  might  have  envisaged,  scarce 

Recoiled  from  —  even  were  the  issue  death  200 

- — Even  her  death  whose  life  was  death  and  worse! 

Always  provided  that  the  charge  of  crime, 

Each  jot  and  tittle  of  the  charge  were  true. 

In  such  a  sense,  belike,  he  might  advise 

His  brother  to  expurgate  crime  with  .  .  .  well, 

With  blood,  if  blood  must  follow  on  "  the  course 

Taken  as  might  beseem  a  cavalier '." 

Whereupon  process  ended,  and  report 
Was  made  without  a  minute  of  delay 

To  Clement,  who,  because  of  those  two  crimes  210 

O'  the  Massimi  and  Cenci  flagrant  late, 
Must  needs  impatiently  desire  result. 

Result  obtained,  he  bade  the  Governor 
Summon  the  Congregation  and  despatch. 
Summons  made,  sentence  passed  accordingly 

—  Death  by  beheading.     When  his  death-decree 
Was  intimated  to  Onofrio,  all 

Man  could  do  —  that  did  he  to  save  himself. 

'T  was  much,  the  having  gained  for  his  defence 

The  Advocate  o'  the  Poor,  with  natural  help  220 


256  CENCIAJA. 

Of  many  noble  friendly  persons  fain 

To  disengage  a  man  of  family, 

So  young  too,  from  his  grim  entanglement : 

But  Cardinal  Aldobrandini  ruled 

There  must  be  no  diversion  of  the  law. 

Justice  is  justice,  and  the  magistrate 

Bears  not  the  sword  in  vain.     Who  sins  must  die. 

So,  the  Marchese  had  his  head  cut  off 
With  Rome  to  see,  a  concourse  infinite ; 

In  Place  Saint  Angelo  beside  the  Bridge:  230 

Where,  demonstrating  magnanimity 
Adequate  to  his  birth  and  breed,  —  poor  boy  !  — 
He  made  the  people  the  accustomed  speech, 
Exhorted  them  to  true  faith,  honest  works, 
And  special  good  behaviour  as  regards 
A  parent  of  no  matter  what  the  sex, 
Bidding  each  son  take  warning  from  himself. 
Truly,  it  was  considered  in  the  boy 
Stark  staring  lunacy,  no  less,  to  snap 

So  plain  a  bait,  be  hooked  and  hauled  a-shore  240 

By  such  an  angler  as  the  Cardinal ! 
Why  make  confession  of  his  privity 
To  Paolo's  enterprise  ?     Mere  sealing  lips  — 
Or,  better,  saying  "  When  I  counselled  him 
'  To  do  as  might  beseem  a  cavalier] 
What  could  I  mean  but  '  Hide  our  parent's  shame 
As  Christian  ought,  by  aid  of  Holy  Church  ! 
Bury  it  in  a  con-vent  —  ay,  beneath 
Enough  dotation  to  prevent  its  ghost 

From  troubling  earth ! ' "   Mere  saying  thus,  —  't  is  plain,      250 
Not  only  were  his  life  the  recompense, 
But  he  had  manifestly  proved  himself 
True  Christian,  and  in  lieu  of  punishment 
Got  praise  of  all  men.     So  the  populace. 

Anyhow,  when  the  Pope  made  promise  good 
(That  of  Aldobrandini.  near  and  dear) 
And  gave  Taverna,  who  had  toiled  so  much, 
A  Cardinal's  equipment,  some  such  word 
As  this  from  mouth  to  ear  went  saucily  : 

"  Taverna's  cap  is  dyed  in  what  he  drew  260 

From  Santa  Croce's  veins ! "     So  joked  the  world. 

I  add :  Onofrio  left  one  child  behind, 
A  daughter  named  Valeria,  dowered  with  grace 
Abundantly  of  soul  and  body,  doomed 
To  life  the  shorter  for  her  father's  fate. 


PORPHYRIES  LOVER.  2$? 

By  death  of  her,  the  Marquisate  returned 
To  that  Orsini  House  from  whence  it  came: 
Oriolo  having  passed  as  donative 
To  Santa  Croce  from  their  ancestors. 

And  no  word  more  ?     By  all  means !     Would  you  know      270 
The  authoritative  answer,  when  folk  urged 
"  What  made  Aldobrandini,  hound-like  staunch, 
Hunt  out  of  life  a  harmless  simpleton?" 
The  answer  was  —  "  Hatred  implacable, 
By  reason  they  were  rivals  in  their  love." 
The  Cardinal's  desire  was  to  a  dame 
Whose  favour  was  Onofrio's.     Pricked  with  pride, 
The  simpleton  must  ostentatiously 
Display  a  ring,  the  Cardinal's  love-gift, 

Given  to  Onofrio  as  the  lady's  gage ;  280 

Which  ring  on  ringer,  as  he  put  forth  hand 
To  draw  a  tapestry,  the  Cardinal 
Saw  and  knew,  gift  and  owner,  old  and  young ; 
Whereon  a  fury  entered  him  —  the  fire 
He  quenched  with  what  coul    quench  fire  only  —  blood. 
Nay,  more :  "  there  want  not  who  affirm  to  boot, 
The  unwise  boy,  a  certain  festal  eve, 
Feigned  ignorance  of  who  the  wight  might  be 
That  pressed  too  closely  on  him  with  a  crowd. 
He  struck  the  Cardinal  a  blow  :  and  then,  290 

To  put  a  face  upon  the  incident, 
Dared  next  day,  smug  as  ever,  go  pay  court 
I'  the  Cardinal's  antechamber.     Mark  and  mend, 
Ye  youth,  by  this  example  how  may  greed 
Vainglorious  operate  in  worldly  souls!" 

So  ends  the  chronicler,  beginning  with 
"  God's  justice,  tardy  tho'  it  prove  perchance, 
Rests  never  till  it  reach  delinquency." 
Ay,  or  how  otherwise  had  come  to  pass 
That  Victor  rules,  this  present  year,  in  Rome?  300 


PORPHYRIA'S   LOVER, 
i. 

'""T'HE  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 

_L    The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 
And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake: 
I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 


258  PORPHYRIES  LOVER. 


n. 


When  glided  in  Porphyria ;  straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm, 
And  kneeled  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm ; 
Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form  jo 


in. 


Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 
And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 

Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 
And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 

And  called  me.     When  no  voice  replied, 


She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder  bare, 

And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie  there, 

And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair,  20 


Murmuring  how  she  loved  me  —  she 

Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavour, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever, 
And  give  herself  to  me  for  ever. 

VI. 

But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 

Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain  : 
So,  she  was  come  thro'  wind  and  rain.  30 

VII. 

Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 

Happy  and  proud ;  at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshiped  me  ;  suiprise 

Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 
While  I  debated  what  to  do. 

VIII. 

That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine,  fair, 
Perfectly  pure  and  good :  I  found 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCL  259 

A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  around,  40 


IX. 


And  strangled  her.     No  pain  felt  she ; 

I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 
As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 

I  warily  oped  her  lids  :  again 
Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 


And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck ;  her  cheek  once  more 
Blushed  bright  beneath  my  burning  kiss : 

I  propped  her  head  up  as  before. 
Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore  50 

XI. 

Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still : 

The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 
So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 

That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 
And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead  ! 

XII. 

Porphyria's  love :  she  guessed  not  how 

Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 
And  thus  we  sit  together  now. 

And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirred, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word  !  60 


FILIPPO    BALDINUCCI   ON   THE   PRIVILEGE   OF   BURIAL 
A  Reminiscence  of  A.D.  1676.. 


NO,  boy,  we  must  not  (so  began 
My  Uncle  —  he  's  with  God  long  since 
A-petting  me,  the  good  old  man!) 

We  must  not  (and  he  seemed  to  wince, 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI 

And  lost  that  laugh  whereto  had  grown 
His  chuckle  at  my  piece  of  news, 

How  cleverly  I  aimed  my  stone) 
I  fear  we  must  not  pelt  the  Jews! 


n. 

When  I  was  young,  indeed, — ah,  faith 

Was  young  and  strong  in  Florence  too!  10 

We  Christians  never  dreamed  of  scathe 

Because  we  cursed  or  kicked  the  crew. 
But  now  —  well,  well!     The  olive-crops 

Weighed  double  then,  and  Arno's  pranks 
Would  always  spare  religious  shops 

Whenever  he  o'erflowed  his  banks ! 


m. 

I  '11  tell  you  (and  his  eye  regained 

Its  twinkle)  tell  you  something  choice  ! 
Something  may  help  you  keep  unstained 

Your  honest  zeal  to  stop  the  voice  2O 

Of  unbelief  with  stone-throw  —  spite 

Of  laws,  which  modern  fools  enact, 
That  we  must  suffer  Jews  in  sight 

Go  wholly  unmolested !     Fact ! 

IV. 

There  was,  then,  in  my  youth,  and  yet 

Is,  by  our  San  Frediano,  just 
Below  the  Blessed  Olivet, 

A  wayside  ground  wherein  they  thrust 
Their  dead,  —  these  Jews,  —  the  more  our  shame! 

Except  that,  so  they  will  but  die,  30 

Christians  perchance  incur  no  blame  ' 

In  giving  hogs  a  hoist  to  stye. 

v. 

There,  anyhow,  Jews  stow  away 

Their  dead;  and,  —  such  their  insolence, — 
Slink  at  odd  times  to  sing  and  pray 

As  Christians  do  —  all  make-pretence  !  — 
Which  wickedness  they  perpetrate 

Because  they  think  no  Christians  see. 
They  reckoned  here,  at  any  rate, 

Without  their  host :  ha,  ha!  he,  he!  40 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  26l 

VI. 

For,  what  should  join  their  plot  of  ground 

But  a  good  Farmer's  Christian  field? 
The  Jews  had  hedged  their  corner  round 

With  bramble-bush  to  keep  concealed 
Their  doings :  for  the  public  road 

Ran  betwixt  this  their  ground  and  that 
The  Farmer's,  where  he  ploughed  and  sowed, 

Grew  corn  for  barn  and  grapes  for  vat. 

VII. 

So,  properly  to  guard  his  store 

And  gall  the  unbelievers  too,  50 

He  builds  a  shrine  and,  what  is  more, 

Procures  a  painter  whom  I  knew, 
One  Buti  (he  's  with  God)  to  paint 

A  holy  picture  there  —  no  less 
Than  Virgin  Mary  free  from  taint 

Borne  to  the  sky  by  angels  :  yes! 


Which  shrine  he  fixed,  —  who  says  him  nay?  — 

A-facing  with  its  picture-side 
Not  as  you  'd  think,  the  public  way, 

But  just  where  sought  these  hounds  to  hide  60 

Their  carrion  from  that  very  truth 

Of  Mary's  triumph  :  not  a  hound 
Could  act  his  mummeries  uncouth 

But  Mary  shamed  the  pack  all  round! 

IX. 

Now,  if  it  was  amusing,  judge! 

—  To  see  the  company  arrive, 
Each  Jew  intent  to  end  his  trudge 

And  take  his  pleasure  (tho'  alive) 
With  all  his  Jewish  kith  and  kin 

Below  ground,  have  his  venom  out,  70 

Sharpen  his  wits  for  next  day's  sin, 

Curse  Christians,  and  so  home,  no  doubt! 


Whereas,  each  phiz  upturned  beholds 
Mary,  I  warrant,  soaring  brave! 

And  in  a  trice,  beneath  the  folds 

Of  filthy  garb  which  gowns  each  knave, 


262  FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI 

Down  drops  it  —  there  to  hide  grimace, 

Contortion  of  the  mouth  and  nose 
At  finding  Mary  in  the  place 

They  'd  keep  for  Pilate,  I  suppose  !  80 


At  last,  they  will  not  brook  —  not  they!  — 

Longer  such  outrage  on  their  tribe  : 
So,  in  some  hole  and  corner,  lay 

Their  heads  together —  how  to  bribe 
The  meritorious  Farmer's  self 

To  straight  undo  his  work,  restore 
Their  chance  to  meet,  and  muse  on  pelf  — 

Pretending  sorrow,  as  before! 

XII. 

Forthwith,  a  posse,  if  you  please, 

Of  Rabbi  This  and  Rabbi  That  90 

Almost  go  down  upon  their  knees 

To  get  him  lay  the  picture  flat. 
The  spokesman,  eighty  years  of  age, 

Gray  as  a  badger,  with  a  goat's 
—  Not  only  beard  but  bleat,  'gins  wage 

War  with  our  Mary.     Thus  he  dotes  :  — 

XIII. 

"Friends,  grant  a  grace  !     How  Hebrews  toil 

Thro'  life  in  Florence  —  why  relate 
To  those  who  lay  the  burden,  spoil 

Our  paths  of  peace  ?     We  bear  our  fate  loo 

But  when  with  life  the  long  toil  ends, 

Why  must  you  —  the  expression  craves 
Pardon,  but  truth  compels  me,  friends  !  — 

Why  must  you  plague  us  in  our  graves  ? 

XIV. 

"  Thoughtlessly  plague,  I  would  believe  ! 

For  how  can  you  —  the  lords  of  ease 
By  nurture,  birthright  —  e'en  conceive 

Our  luxury  to  lie  with  trees 
And  turf,  —  the  cricket  and  the  bird 

Left  for  our  last  companionship  :  no 

No  harsh  deed,  no  unkindly  word, 

No  frowning  brow  nor  scornful  lip! 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE   OF  BURIAL.  263 


"  Death's  luxury,  we  now  rehearse 

While,  living  thro'  your  streets  we  fare 
And  take  your  hatred  :  nothing  worse 

Have  we,  once  dead  and  safe,  to  bear! 
So  we  refresh  our  souls,  fulfil 

Our  works,  our  daily  tasks ;  and  thus 
Gather  you  grain  —  earth's  harvest  —  still 

The  wheat  for  you,  the  straw  for  us.  120 


" '  What  flouting  in  a  face,  what  harm, 

In  just  a  lady  borne  from  bier 
By  boys'  heads,  wings  for  leg  and  arm  ? ' 

You  question.     Friends,  the  harm  is  here  — 
That  just  when  our  last  sigh  is  heaved, 

And  we  would  fain  thank  God  and  you 
For  labour  done  and  peace  achieved, 

Back  comes  the  Past  in  full  review! 

XVII. 

"At  sight  of  just  that  simple  flag. 

Starts  the  foe-feeling  serpent-like  130 

From  slumber.     Leave  it  lulled,  nor  drag  — 

Tho'  fangless  —  forth,  what  needs  must  strike 
When  stricken  sore,  tho'  stroke  be  vain 

Against  the  mailed  oppressor!     Give 
Play  to  our  fancy  that  we  gain 

Life's  rights  when  once*we  cease  to  live! 

XVIII. 

"  Thus  much  to  courtesy,  to  kind, 

To  conscience!     Now  to  Florence  folk! 
There's  core  beneath  this  apple-rind, 

Beneath  this  white-of-egg  there  's  yolk!  140 

Beneath  this  prayer  to  courtesy, 

Kind,  conscience  —  there  's  a  sum  to  pouch! 
How  many  ducats  down  will  buy 

Our  shame's  removal,  sirs?     Avouch! 

XIX. 

"Removal,  not  destruction,  sirs! 

Just  turn  your  picture !     Let  it  front 
The  public  path!     Or  memory  errs, 

Or  that  same  public  path  is  wont 


264 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCl 


To  witness  many  a  chance  befall 

Of  lust,  theft,  bloodshed  —  sins  enough,  150 

Wherein  our  Hebrew  part  is  small. 

Convert  yourselves ! "  —  he  cut  up  rough. 


XX. 

Look  you,  how  soon  a  service  paid 

Religion  yields  the  servant  fruit! 
A  prompt  reply  our  Farmer  made 

So  following :  "  Sirs,  to  grant  your  suit 
Involves  much  danger!     How?     Transpose 

Our  Lady?     Stop  the  chastisement, 
All  for  your  good,  herself  bestows  ? 

What  wonder  if  I  grudge  consent?  1 60 

XXI. 

"  —  Yet  grant  it :  since,  what  cash  I  take 

Is  so  much  saved  from  wicked  use. 
We  know  you!     And,  for  Mary's  sake, 

A  hundred  ducats  shall  induce 
Concession  to  your  prayer.     One  day 

Suffices  :  Master  Buti's  brush 
Turns  Mary  round  the  other  way, 

And  deluges  your  side  with  slush. 

xxn. 

"Down  with  the  ducats  therefore!"     Dump, 

Dump,  dump  it  falls,  each  counted  piece,  170 

Hard  gold.     Then  out  of  door  they  stump, 

These  dogs,  each  brisk  as  with  new  lease 
Of  life,  I  warrant,  — glad  he  '11  die 

Henceforward  just  as  he  may  choose, 
Be  buried  and  in  clover  lie! 

Well  said  Esaias —  "  stiff-necked  Jews!  " 


Off  posts  without  a  minute's  loss 

Our  Farmer,  once  the  cash  in  poke, 
And  summons  Buti —  ere  its  gloss 

Have  time  to  fade  from  off  the  joke —  1 80 

To  chop  and  change  his  work,  undo 

The  done  side,  make  the  side,  now  blank, 
Recipient  of  our  Lady  —  who, 

Displaced  thus,  had  these  dogs  to  thank! 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE   OF  BURIAL. 


265 


Now,  boy,  you  're  hardly  to  instruct 

In  technicalities  of  Art! 
My  nephew's  childhood  sure  has  sucked 

Along  with  motherVmilk  some  part 
Of  painter's-practice — learned,  at  least, 

How  expeditiously  is  plied  190 

A  work  in  fresco  —  never  ceased 

When  once  begun  —  a  day,  each  side. 

xxv. 

So,  Buti  —  he  's  with  God  —  begins : 

First  covers  up  the  shrine  all  round 
With  hoarding ;  then,  as  like  as  twins, 

Paints,  t1  other  side  the  burial-ground, 
New  Mary,  every  point  the  same ; 

Next,  sluices  over,  as  agreed, 
The  old  ;  and  last  —  but,  spoil  the  game 

By  telling  you?    Not  I,  indeed!  200 

XXVI. 

Well,  ere  the  week  was  half  at  end, 

Out  came  the  object  of  this  zeal, 
This  fine  alacrity  to  spend 

Hard  money  for  mere  dead  men's  weal! 
How  think  you?     That  old  spokesman  Jew 

Was  High  Priest,  and  he  had  a  wife 
As  old,  and  she  was  dying  too, 

And  wished  to  end  in  peace  her  life! 

XXVII. 

And  he  must  humour  dying  whims, 

And  soothe  her  with  the  idle  hope  210 

They  'd  say  their  prayers  and  sing  their  hymns 

As  if  her  husband  were  the  Pope! 
And  she  did  die  —  believing  just 

This  privilege  was  purchased!     Dead 
In  comfort  thro1  her  foolish  trust! 

"  Stiff-necked  ones,"  well  Esaias  said! 

XXVIII. 

So,  Sabbath  morning,  out  of  gate 

And  on  to  way,  what  sees  our  arch 
Good  Farmer?     Why,  they  hoist  their  freight  — 

The  corpse  —  on  shoulder,  and  so,  march!  220 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI 

«  Now  for  it,  Buti ! "     In  the  nick 

Of  time  't  is  pully-hauly,  hence 
With  hoarding  !     O'er  the  wayside  quick 

There  's  Mary  plain  in  evidence  ! 

XXIX. 

And  here  :s  the  convoy  halting :  right ! 

O  they  are  bent  on  howling  psalms 
And  growling  prayers,  when  opposite  ! 

And  yet  they  glance,  for  all  their  qualms, 
Approve  that  promptitude  of  his, 

The  Farmer's  —  duly  at  his  post  230 

To  take  due  thanks  from  every  phiz, 

Sour  smirk  —  nay,  surly  smile  almost ! 

XXX. 

Then  earthward  drops  each  brow  again ; 

The  solemn  task  's  resumed ;  they  reach 
Their  holy  field  —  the  unholy  train  : 

Enter  its  precinct,  all  and  each, 
Wrapt  somehow  in  their  godless  rites ; 

Till,  rites  at  end.  up-waking,  lo 
They  lift  their  faces  !     What  delights 

The  mourners  as  they  turn  to  go  ?  240 

XXXI. 

Ha,  ha  !  he,  he  !     On  just  the  side 

They  drew  their  purse-strings  to  make  quit 
Of  Mary,  —  Christ  the  Crucified 

Fronted  them  now  —  these  biters  bit ! 
Never  was  such  a  hiss  and  snort. 

Such  screwing  nose  and  shooting  lip ! 
Their  purchase  —  honey  in  report  — 

Proved  gall  and  verjuice  at  first  sip  ! 


Out  they  break,  on  they  bustle,  where, 

A-top  of  wall,  the  Farmer  waits  250 

With  Buti :  never  fun  so  rare  ! 

The  Farmer  has  the  best :  he  rates 
The  rascal,  as  the  old  High  Priest 

Takes  on  himself  to  sermonize  — 
Nay,  sneer  "  We  Jews  supposed,  at  least, 

Theft  was  a  crime  in  Christian  eves  !" 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL. 


xxxin. 


267 


"  Theft  ?  "  cries  the  Farmer,  "  Eat  your  words ! 

Show  me  what  constitutes  a  breach 
Of  faith  in  aught  was  said  or  heard  ! 

I  promised  you  in  plainest  speech  260 

I  'd  take  the  thing  you  count  disgrace 

And  put  it  here  —  and  here  't  is  put ! 
Did  you  suppose  I  'd  leave  the  place 

Blank  therefore,  just  your  rage  to  glut? 

xxxiv. 

"  I  guess  you  dared  not  stipulate 

For  such  a  damned  impertinence  ! 
So,  quick,  my  graybeard,  out  of  gate 

And  in  at  Ghetto  !     Haste  you  hence  ! 
As  long  as  I  have  house  and  land, 

To  spite  you  irreligious  chaps  '270 

Here  shall  the  Crucifixion  stand  — 

Unless  you  down  with  cash,  perhaps  ! " 

xxxv. 

So  snickered  he  and  Buti  both. 

The  Jews  said  nothing,  interchanged 
A  glance  or  two,  renewed  their  oath 

To  keep  ears  stopped  and  hearts  estranged 
From  grace,  for  all  our  Church  can  do. 

Then  off  they  scuttle  :  sullen  jog 
Homewards,  against  our  Church  to  brew 

Fresh  mischief  in  their  synagogue.  280 

xxxvi. 

But  next  day  —  see  what  happened,  boy  ! 

See  why  I  bid  you  have  a  care 
How  you  pelt  Jews  !     The  knaves  employ 

Such  methods  of  revenge,  forbear 
No  outrage  on  our  faith,  when  free 

To  wreak  their  malice  !     Here  they  took 
So  base  a  method  —  plague  o1  me 

If  I  record  it  in  my  Book! 

XXXVII. 

For,  next  day,  while  the  Farmer  sat 

Laughing  with  Buti,  in  his  shop,  290 

At  their  successful  joke,  —  rat-tat,  — 

Door  opens,  and  they  're  like  to  drop 


268  FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI 

Down  to  the  floor  as  in  there  stalks 

A  six-feet-high  herculean-built 
Young  he-Jew  with  a  beard  that  baulks 

Description.     •'  Help  ere  blood  be  spilt! " 

xxxvin. 

—  Screamed  Buti :  for  he  recognized 

Whom  but  the  son,  no  less  no  more, 
Of  that  High  Priest  his  work  surprised 

So  pleasantly  the  day  before  !  300 

Son  of  the  mother,  then,  whereof 

The  bier  he  lent  a  shoulder  to, 
And  made  the  moans  about,  dared  scoff 

At  sober  Christian  grief  —  the  Jew! 

XXXIX. 

"  Sirs,  I  salute  you  !     Never  rise  ! 

No  apprehension  ! "     (Buti,  white 
And  trembling  like  a  tub  of  size, 

Had  tried  to  smuggle  out  of  sight 
The  picture's  self — the  thing  in  oils, 

You  know,  from  which  a  fresco  's  dashed  310 

Which  courage  speeds  while  caution  spoils) 

"Stay  and  be  praised  sir,  unabashed! 

XL. 

"Praised,  —  ay,  and  paid  too:  for  I  come 

To  buy  that  very  work  of  yours. 
My  poor  abode,  which  boasts  —  well,  some 

Few  specimens  of  Art,  secures 
Haply,  a  masterpiece  indeed 

If  I  should  find  my  humble  means 
Suffice  the  outlay.     So,  proceed! 

Propose  —  ere  prudence  intervenes!"  320 

XLI. 

On  Buti,  cowering  like  a  child, 

These  words  descended  from  aloft, 
In  tones  so  ominously  mild, 

With  smile  terrifically  soft 
To  that  degree  —  could  Buti  dare 

(Poor  fellow)  use  his  brains,  think  twice? 
He  asked,  thus  taken  unaware, 

No  more  than  just  the  proper  price  ! 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  269 

XLII. 

"Done!  "  cries  the  monster.     "I  disburse 

Forthwith  your  moderate  demand.  330 

Count  on  my  custom —  if  no  worse 

Your  future  work  be,  understand, 
Than  this  I  carry  off !     No  aid ! 

My  arm,  sir,  lacks  nor  bone  nor  thews : 
The  burden 's  easy,  and  we  're  made, 

Easy  or  hard,  to  bear  —  we  Jews! " 

XLIII. 

Crossing  himself  at  such  escape, 

Buti  by  turns  the  money  eyes 
And,  timidly,  the  stalwart  shape 

Now  moving  doorwards ;  but,  more  wise,  340 

The  Farmer,  —  who,  tho'  dumb,  this  while 

Had  watched  advantage  —  straight  conceived 
A  reason  for  that  tone  and  smile 

So  mild  and  soft!     The  Jew  —  believed! 

XLIV. 

Mary  in  triumph  borne  to  deck 

A  Hebrew  household!     Pictured  where 
No  one  was  used  to  bend  the  nec"k 

In  praise  or  bow  the  knee  in  prayer! 
Borne  to  that  domicile  by  whom? 

The  son  of  the  High  Priest!     Thro'  what?  350 

An  insult  done  his  mother's  tomb! 

Saul  changed  to  Paul —  the  case  came  pat! 


"  Stay,  dog-Jew  .  .  .  gentle  sir,  that  is! 

Resolve  me!     Can  it  be,  she  crowned, — 
Mary,  by  miracle, —  Oh  bliss!  — 

My  present  to  your  burial-ground  ? 
Certain,  a  ray  of  light  has  burst 

Your  veil  of  darkness!     Had  you  else, 
Only  for  Mary's  sake,  unpursed 

So  much  hard  money  ?     Tell  —  oh,  tell 's ! "  360 

XLVI. 

Round  —  like  a  serpent  that  we  took 

For  worm  and  trod  on  —  turns  his  bulk 
About  the  Jew.     First  dreadful  look 

Sends  Buti  in  a  trice  to  skulk 


270 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI 

Out  of  sight  somewhere,  safe  —  alack! 

But  our  good  Farmer  faith  made  bold : 
And  firm  (with  Florence  at  his  back) 

He  stood,  while  gruff  the  gutturals  rolled — 

XLVII. 

"Ay,  sir,  a  miracle  was  worked, 

By  quite  another  power,  I  trow,  370 

Than  ever  yet  in  canvas  lurked, 

Or  you  would  scarcely  face  me  now! 
A  certain  impulse  did  suggest 

A  certain  grasp  with  this  right-hand, 
Which  probably  had  put  to  rest 

Our  quarrel,  —  thus  your  throat  once  spanned! 

XLVIII. 

"  But  I  remembered  me,  subdued 

That  impulse,  and  you  face  me  still! 
And  soon  a  philosophic  mood 

Succeeding  (hear  it,  if  you  will!)  380 

Has  altogether  changed  my  views 

Concerning  Art.     Blind  prejudice! 
Well  may  you  Christians  tax  us  Jews 

With  scrupulosity  too  nice ! 

XLIX. 

u  For,  don't  I  see,  —  let 's  issue  join !  — 

Whenever  I  'm  allowed  pollute 
(I  —  and  my  little  bag  of  coin) 

Some  Christian  palace  of  repute,  — 
Don't  I  see  stuck  up  everywhere 

Abundant  proof  that  cultured  taste  390 

Has  Beauty  for  its  only  care, 

And  upon  Truth  no  thought  to  waste? 

L. 

u '  Jew,  since  it  must  be,  take  in  pledge 

Of  payment ' —  so  a  Cardinal 
Has  signed  to  me  as  if  a  wedge 

Entered  his  heart  — i  this  best  of  all 
My  treasures ! '     Leda,  Ganymede 

Or  Antiope :  swan,  eagle,  ape, 
(Or  what 's  the  beast  of  what 's  the  breed) 

And  Jupiter  in  every  shape!  400 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  271 

LI. 

"  Whereat  if  I  presume  to  ask 

'  But,  Eminence,  tho'  Titian's  whisk 
Of  brush  have  well  performed  its  task, 

How  comes  it  these  false  godships  frisk 
In  presence  of — what  yonder  frame 

Pretends  to  image  ?     Surely,  odd 
It  seems,  you  let  confront  The  Name 

Each  beast  the  heathen  called  his  god! ' 

LII. 

"  Benignant  smiles  me  pity  straight 

'The  Cardinal.     °T  is  Truth,  we  prize!  410 

Art 's  the  sole  question  in  debate! 

These  subjects  are  so  many  lies. 
We  treat  them  with  a  proper  scorn 

When  we  turn  lies  —  called  gods  forsooth  — 
To  lies'  fit  use,  now  Christ  is  born. 

Drawing  and  colouring  are  Truth. 

LIII. 

'* '  Think  you  I  honour  lies  so  much 

As  scruple  to  parade  the  charms 
Of  Leda  —  Titian,  every  touch  — 

Because  the  thing  within  her  arms  420 

Means  Jupiter  who  had  the  praise 

And  prayer  of  a  benighted  world? 
He  would  have  mine  too,  if,  in  days 

Of  light,  I  kept  the  canvas  furled! ' 


<;  So  ending,  with  some  easy  gibe. 

What  power  has  logic!     I,  at  once, 
Acknowledged  error  in  our  tribe 

So  squeamish  that,  when  friends  ensconce 
A  pretty  picture  in  its  niche 

To  do  us  honour,  deck  our  graves,  430 

We  fret  and  fume  and  have  an  itch 

To  strangle  folk  —  ungrateful  kn.aves! 

LV. 

"  No,  sir!     Be  sure  that  —  what 's  its  style, 

Your  picture  ?  —  shall  possess  ungrudged 
A  place  among  my  rank  and  file 

Of  Ledas  and  what  not  —  be  judged 


272       SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH   CLOISTER. 

Just  as  a  picture!  —  and  (because 

I  fear  me  much  I  scarce  have  bought 
A  Titian)  Master  Buti's  flaws 

Found  there,  will  have  the  laugh  flaws  ought! "  440 

LVI. 

So,  with  a  scowl,  it  darkens  door  — 

This  bulk  —  no  longer!     Buti  makes 
Prompt  glad  re-entry ;  there  's  a  score 

Of  oaths,  as  the  good  Farmer  wakes 
From  what  must  needs  have  been  a  trance, 

Or  he  had  struck  (he  swears)  to  ground 
The  bold  bad  mouth  that  dared  advance 

Such  doctrine  the  reverse  of  sound! 

LVII. 

Was  magic  here?     Most  like!     For,  since, 

Somehow  our  city's  faith  grows  still  450 

More  and  more  lukewarm,  and  our  Prince 

Or  loses  heart  or  wants  the  will 
To  check  increase  of  cold.     'T  is  "  Live 

And  let  live!     Languidly  repress 
The  Dissident!     In  short,  —  contrive 

Christians  must  bear  with  Jews  :  no  less! M 

LVIII. 

The  end  seems,  any  Israelite 

Wants  any  picture,  —  pishes,  poohs, 
Purchases,  hangs  it  full  in  sight 

In  any  chamber  he  may  choose!  460 

In  Christ's  crown,  one  more  thorn  we  rue ! 

In  Mary's  bosom,  one  more  sword! 
No,  boy,  you  must  not  pelt  a  Jew! 

O  Lord,  how  long?     How  long,  O  Lord? 


SOLILOQUY  OF  THE   SPANISH   CLOISTER. 


GR-R-R  —  there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence! 
Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 
God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you! 


SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER.        273 

What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims  — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 

n. 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together : 

Salve  tibi!    I  must  hear  lo 

Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year : 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop :  scarcely 

Dare  u>e  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What  'j  the  Latin  name  for  '•'•parsley  M  ? 

What 's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout? 


in. 

Whew !    We  Tll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf ! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we  're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself,  20 

Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  't  is  fit  to  touch  our  chaps  — 
Marked  with  L  for  our  initial ! 

(He-he!     There  his  lily  snaps!) 

IV. 

Saint,  forsooth !     While  brown  Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horse  hairs, 

—  Can 't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow,  30 

Bright  as  't  were  a  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he  'd  let  it  show!) 

v. 

When  he  finishes  refection. 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp  — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp.  40 

T 


274       SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER. 


Oh,  those  melons  ?     If  he 's  able 

We  're  to  have  a  feast :  so  nice ! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers ?     None  double? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy  ? 
Strange!  —  And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly! 

VII. 

There  's  a  great  text  in  Galatians 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails  50 

Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations 

One  sure,  if  another  fails  : 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying. 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee? 

VIII. 

Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe :  60 

If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in  't? 

IX. 

Or,  there's  Satan!  —  one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he  'd  miss,  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We  're  so  proud  of  !     Hy,  Zy,  Him  ...  70 

'St,  there  's  Vespers!     Plena  gratid 

Ave,  Virgo !     Gr-r-r  —  you  swine ! 


THE  HERETICS  TRAGEDY.  2?$ 

THE   HERETICS   TRAGEDY. 

A  MIDDLE-AGE   INTERLUDE. 

ROSA  MUNDI;  SEU,  FULCITE  ME  FLORIBUS.  A  CONCEIT  OF  MASTER  GYS- 
BRECHT,  CANON-REGULAR  OF  SAINT  JODOCUS-BY-THE-BAR,  YPRES  CITY. 
CANTUQUE,  Virgilius,  AND  HATH  OFTEN  BEEN  SUNG  AT  HOCKTIDE 
AND  FESTIVALS.  GAVISUS  ERAM,  JtSSldes. 

(It  would  seem  to  be  a  glimpse  from  the  burning  of  Jacques  du  Bourg- 
Molay,  at  Paris,  A.D.  1314;  as  distorted  by  the  refraction  from  Flemish  brain 
to  brain  during  the  course  of  a  couple  of  centuries.) 

I. 

PREADMONISHETH  THE  ABBOT  DEODAET. 

'""P'HE  Lord,  we  look  to  once  for  all, 

JL      Is  the  Lord  we  should  look  at,  all  at  once: 
He  knows  not  to  vary,  saith  St.  Paul, 

Nor  the  shadow  of  turning,  for  the  nonce. 
See  him  no  other  than  as  he  is! 

Give  both  the  infinitudes  their  due  — 
Infinite  mercy,  but,  I  wis, 

As  infinite  a  justice  too. 

[Organ :  plagal-cadence.~\ 

As  infinite  a  justice  too. 

II. 

ONE   SINGETH. 

John,  Master  of  the  Temple  of  God,  10 

Falling  to  sin  the  Unknown  Sin, 
What  he  bought  of  Emperor  Aldabrod, 

He  sold  it  to  Sultan  Saladin  : 
Till,  caught  by  Pope  Clement,  a-buzzing  there, 

Hornet-prince  of  the  mad  wasps'  hive, 
And  dipt  of  his  wings  in  Paris  square, 

They  bring  him  now  to  be  burned  alive. 

{And  wanteth  there  grace  of  lute  or  clavzcithern, 
ye  shall  say  to  confirm  him  who  singeth  — 

We  bring  John  now  to  be  burned  alive. 

III. 

In  the  midst  is  a  goodly  gallows  built ; 

'Twixt  fork  and  fork,  a  stake  is  stuck ;  20 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY. 

But  first  they  set  divers  tumbrils  a-tilt, 

Make  a  trench  all  round  with  the  city  muck ; 

Inside  they  pile  log  upon  log,  good  store ; 
Fagots  no  few,  blocks  great  and  small, 

Reach  a  man's  mid-thigh,  no  less,  no  more,  — 
For  they  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

CHORUS. 

We  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

• 

rv. 

Good  sappy  bavins  that  kindle  forthwith ; 

Billets  that  blaze  substantial  and  slow ; 
Pine-stump  split  deftly,  dry  as  pith  ;  30 

Larch-heart  that  chars  to  a  chalk-white  glow : 
Then  up  they  hoist  me  John  in  a  chafe, 

Sling  him  fast  like  a  hog  to  scorch, 
Spit  in  his  face,  then  leap  back  safe, 

Sing  "  Laudes  "  and  bid  clap-to  the  torch. 

CHORUS. 

Lans  Deo  —  who  bids  clap-to  the  torch. 

V. 

John  of  the  Temple,  whose  fame  so  bragged, 

Is  burning  alive  in  Paris  square! 
How  can  he  curse,  if  his  mouth  is  gagged? 

Or  wriggle  his  neck,  with  a  collar  there  ?  40 

Or  heave  his  chest,  which  a  band  goes  round? 

Or  threat  with  his  fist,  since  his  arms  are  spliced  ? 
Or  kick  with  his  feet,  now  his  legs  are  bound? 

—  Thinks  John,  I  will  call  upon  Jesus  Christ. 

[Here  one  crosseth  himself. 

VI. 

Jesus  Christ  —  John  had  bought  and  sold, 

Jesus  Christ  —  John  had  eaten  and  drunk; 
To  him,  the  Flesh  meant  silver  and  gold. 

(Satvd  reverentid  nunc.) 
Now  it  was,  "  Saviour,  bountiful  lamb, 

I  have  roasted  thee  Turks,  tho'  men  roast  me! 
See  thy  servant,  the  plight  wherein  I  am !  50 

Art  thou  a  saviour?     Save  thou  me  !  " 


THE  HERETICS   TRAGEDY. 

CHORUS. 

*T  is  John  the  mocker  cries,  "  Save  thou  met  w 

vn. 

Who  maketh  God's  menace  an  idle  word? 

—  Saith,  it  no  more  means  what  it  proclaims, 
Than  a  damsel's  threat  to  her  wanton  bird?  — 

For  she  too  prattles  of  ugly  names. 
—  Saith,  he  knoweth  but  one  thing,  —  what  he  knows  ? 

That  God  is  good  and  the  rest  is  breath ; 
Why  else  is  the  same  styled  Sharon's  rose? 

Once  a  rose,  ever  a  rose,  he  saith.  60 

CHORUS. 

O,  John  shall  yet  find  a  rose,  he  saith! 

VIII. 

Alack,  there  be  roses  and  roses,  John! 

Some,  honied  of  taste  like  your  leman's  tongue: 
Some,  bitter;  for  why?  (roast  gaily  on!) 

Their  tree  struck  root  in  devil's  dung. 
When  Paul  once  reasoned  of  righteousness 

And  of  temperance  and  of  judgment  to  come, 
Good  Felix  trembled,  he  could  no  less : 

John,  snickering,  crook'd  his  wicked  thumb. 

CHORUS. 

What  cometh  to  John  of  the  wicked  thumb?  70 

IX. 

Ha,  ha,  John  plucketh  now  at  his  rose 

To  rid  himself  of  a  sorrow  at  heart! 
Lo,  —  petal  on  petal,  fierce  rays  unclose; 

Anther  on  anther,  sharp  spikes  outstart; 
And  with  blood  for  dew,  the  bosom  boils ; 

And  a  gust  of  sulphur  is  all  its  smell ; 
And  lo,  he  is  horribly  in  the  toils 

Of  a  coal-black  giant  flower  of  hell! 

CHORUS. 

What  maketh  heaven,  That  maketh  he.. 


278  HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

x. 

So,  as  John  called  now,  thro'  the  fire  amain,  80 

On  the  Name,  he  had  cursed  with,  all  his  life  — 
To  the  Person,  he  bought  and  sold  again  — 

For  the  Face,  with  his  daily  buffets  rife  — 
Feature  by  feature  It  took  its  place : 

And  his  voice,  like  a  mad  dog's  choking  bark, 
At  the  steady  whole  of  the  Judge's  face  — 

Died.     Forth  John's  soul  flared  into  the  dark. 

SUBJOINETH   THE  ABBOT  DEODAET. 

God  help  all  poor  souls  lost  in  the  darkl 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

ON  WHICH  THE    JEWS  WERE   FORCED   TO   ATTEND   AN   ANNUAL  CHRIS- 
TIAN  SERMON   IN   ROME. 

["  Now  was  come  about  Holy-Cross  Day,  and  now  must  my  lord  preach  his 
first  sermon  to  the  Jews :  as  it  was  of  old  cared  for  in  the  merciful  bowels  of 
the  Church,  that,  so  to  speak,  a  crumb  at  least  from  her  conspicuous  table 
here  in  Rome,  should  be,  though  but  once  yearly,  cast  to  the  famishing  dogs, 
under-trampled  and  bespitten-upon  beneath  the  feet  of  the  guests.  And  a 
moving  sight  in  truth,  this,  of  GO  many  of  the  besotted  blind  restif  and  ready- 
to-perish  Hebrews!  now  maternally  brought  —  nay,  (for  He  saith, 'Compel 
them  to  come  in ')  haled,  as  it  were,  by  the  head  and  hair,  and  against  their 
obstinate  hearts,  to  partake  of  the  heavenly  grace.  What  awakening,  what 
striving  with  tears,  what  working  of  a  yeasty  conscience !  Xor  was  my  lord 
wanting  to  himself  on  so  apt  an  occasion  ;  witness  the  abundance  of  conver- 
sions which  did  incontinently  reward  him  :  though  not  to  my  lord  be  altogether 
the  glory."  — Diary  by  the  Bishop's  Secretary,  1600.] 

What  the  Jews  really  said,  on  thus  being  driven  to  church,  was  rather  to 
this  effect :  — 


FEE.  faw,  fum!  bubble  and  squeak! 
Blessedest  Thursday  's  the  fat  of  the  week. 
Rumble  and  tumble,  sleek  and  rough, 
Stinking  and  savoury,  smug  and  gruff, 
Take  the  church-road,  for  the  bell's  due  chime 
Gives  us  the  summcns  —  'tis  sermon-time! 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY.  279 

ii. 

Boh,  here  's  Barnabas!    Job,  that 's  you? 

Up  stumps  Solomon  —  bustling  too? 

Shame,  man!  greedy  beyond  your  years 

To  handsel  the  bishop's  shaving-shears?  10 

Fair  play  's  a  jewel!     Leave  friends  in  the  lurch? 

Stand  on  a  line  ere  you  start  for  the  church ! 

in. 

Higgledy,  piggledy,  packed  we  lie, 
Rats  in  a  hamper,  swine  in  a  stye, 
Wasps  in  a  bottle,  frogs  in  a  sieve, 
Worms  in  a  carcass,  fleas  in  a  sleeve. 
Hist!  square  shoulders,  settle  your  thumbs 
And  buzz  for  the  bishop  —  here  he  comes. 

IV. 

Bow,  wow,  wow  —  a  bone  for  the  dog! 

I  liken  his  Grace  to  an  acorned  hog.  20 

What,  a  boy  at  his  side,  with  the  bloom  of  a  lass, 

To  help  and  handle  my  lord's  hour-glass! 

Didst  ever  behold  so  lithe  a  chine? 

His  cheek  hath  laps  like  a  fresh-singed  swine. 

v. 

Aaron  's  asleep  —  shove  hip  to  haunch, 

Or  somebody  deal  him  a  dig  in  the  paunch! 

Look  at  the  purse  with  the  tassel  and  knob, 

And  the  gown  with  the  angel  and  thingumbob! 

What 's  he  at,  quotha?  reading  his  text! 

Now  you  've  his  curtsey  —  and  what  comes  next  ?  30 

VI. 

See  to  our  converts  —  you  doomed  black  dozen  — 

No  stealing  away  —  nor  cog  nor  cozen! 

You  five,  that  were  thieves,  deserve  it  fairly ; 

You  seven,  that  were  beggars,  will  live  less  sparely ; 

You  took  your  turn  and  dipped  in  the  hat, 

Got  fortune  —  and  fortune  gets  you ;  mind  that! 

vn. 

Give  your  first  groan  —  compunction's  at  work; 
And  soft!  from  a  Jew  you  mount  to  a  Turk. 
Lo,  Micah,  —  the  selfsame  beard  on  chin 


28o  HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

He  was  four  times  already  converted  in !  40 

Here  's  a  knife,  clip  quick  —  it 's  a  sign  of  grace  — 
Or  he  ruins  us  all  with  his  hanging-face. 

VIII. 

Whom  now  is  the  bishop  a-leering  at? 
I  know  a  point  where  his  text  falls  pat. 
I  '11  tell  him  to-morrow,  a  word  just  now 
Went  to  my  heart  and  made  me  vow 
I  meddle  no  more  with  the  worst  of  trades  : 
Let  somebody  else  pay  his  serenades! 

IX. 

Groan  altogether  now,  whee — hee — hee! 

It  's  a-work,  it 's  a-work,  ah,  woe  is  me !  50 

It  began,  when  a  herd  of  us,  picked  and  placed, 

Were  spurred  thro'  the  Corso,  stripped  to  the  waist ; 

Jew  brutes,  with  sweat  and  blood  well  spent 

To  usher  in  worthily  Christian  Lent. 

x. 

It  grew,  when  the  hangman  entered  our  bounds, 

Yelled,  pricked  us  out  to  his  church  like  hounds : 

It  got  to  a  pitch,  when  the  hand  indeed 

Which  gutted  my  purse,  would  throttle  my  creed : 

And  it  overflows,  when,  to  even  the  odd, 

Men  I  helped  to  their  sins  help  me  to  their  God.  60 

XI. 

But  now,  while  the  scapegoats  leave  our  flock, 
And  the  rest  sit  silent  and  count  the  clock, 
Since  forced  to  muse  the  appointed  time 
On  these  precious  facts  and  truths  sublime,  — 
Let  us  fitly  employ  it,  under  our  breath, 
In  saying  Ben  Ezra's  Song  of  Death. 

xn. 

For  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  night  he  died, 

Called  sons  and  sons'  sons  to  his  side, 

And  spoke,  "  This  world  has  been  harsh  and  strange ; 

Something  is  wrong:  there  needeth  a  change.  70 

But  what,  or  where  ?  at  the  last  or  first  ? 

In  one  point  only  we  sinned,  at  worst. 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY.  28l 

XIII. 

"  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob  yet, 
And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel  set. 
When  Judah  beholds  Jerusalem, 
The  stranger-seed  shall  be  joined  to  them : 
To  Jacob's  House  shall  the  Gentiles  cleave, 
So  the  Prophet  saith  and  his  sons  believe. 

XIV. 

"  Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 

Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their  place  :  80 

In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the  same, 

Bondsmen  and  handmaids.     Who  shall  blame, 

When  the  slaves  enslave,  the  oppressed  ones  o'er 

The  oppressor  triumph  for  evermore  ? 

XV. 

u  God  spoke,  and  gave  us  the  word  to  keep : 

Bade  never  fold  the  hands  nor  sleep 

'Mid  a  faithless  world,  —  at  watch  and  ward, 

Till  Christ  at  the  end  relieve  our  guard. 

By  his  servant  Moses  the  watch  was  set : 

Tho1  near  upon  cock-crow,  we  keep  it  yet.  90 

XVI. 

"Thou!  if  thou  wast  he,  who  at  mid-watch  came, 

By  the  starlight,  naming  a  dubious  name! 

And  if,  too  heavy  with  sleep  —  too  rash 

With  fear  —  O  thou,  if  that  martyr-gash 

Fell  on  thee  coming  to  take  thine  own. 

And  we  gave  the  Cross,  when  we  owed  the  Throne  ~~ 

XVII. 

"  Thou  art  the  Judge.     We  are  bruised  thus. 

But,  the  Judgment  over,  join  sides  with  us! 

Thine  too  is  the  cause!  and  not  more  thine 

Than  ours,  is  the  work  of  these  dogs  and  swine,  loc 

Whose  life  laughs  thro'  and  spits  at  their  creed, 

Who  maintain  thee  in  word,  and  defy  thee  in  deed! 

XVIII. 

"We  withstood  Christ  then?     Be  mindful  how 

At  least  we  withstand  Barabbas  now ! 

Was  our  outrage  sore?     But  the  worst  we  spared, 


282  AMPHIBIAN: 

To  have  called  these  —  Christians,  had  we  dared! 
Let  defiance  to  them  pay  mistrust  of  thee, 
And  Rome  make  amends  for  Calvary! 

XIX. 

"  By  the  torture,  prolonged  from  age  to  age, 

By  the  infamy,  Israel's  heritage,  »  lie 

By  the  Ghetto's  plague,  by  the  garb's  disgrace, 

By  the  badge  of  shame,  by  the  felon's  place, 

By  ths  branding-tool,  the  bloody  whip, 

And  the  summons  to  Christian  fellowship,  — 

xx. 

"We  boast  our  proof  that  at  least  the  Jew 

Would  wrest  Christ's  name  from  the  Devil's  crew. 

Thy  face  took  never  so  deep  a  shade 

But  we  fought  them  in  it,  God  our  aid! 

A  trophy  to  bear,  as  we  march,  thy  band 

South,  East,  and  on  to  the  Pleasant  Land!  "  120 

{Pope  Gregory  XVI  abolished  this  bad  business  of  the 
Sermon.  — R.  B.~\ 


AMPHIBIAN, 
i. 

'  I  "HE  fancy  I  had  to-day, 
JL     Fancy  which  turned  a  fear! 
I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 

Since  waves  laughed  warm  and  clear. 

n. 

I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun, 

The  noon-sun  looked  at  me : 
Between  us  two,  no  one 

Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 

in. 

Yes!    There  came  floating  by 

Me,  who  lay  floating  too,  10 

Such  a  strange  butterfly! 

Creature  as  dear  as  new  : 


AMPHIBIAN. 


283 

IV. 


Because  the  membraned  wings 
So  wonderful,  so  wide, 

So  sun-suffused,  were  things 
Like  soul  and  naught  beside. 


A  handbreadth  over  head! 

All  of  the  sea  my  own, 
It  owned  the  sky  instead  ;H. 

Both  of  us  were  alone.  20 


VI. 

I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 

For,  naught  buoys  flesh  in  air. 
If  it  touch  the  sea  —  good  night! 

Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 

VII. 

Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 

For  watching  the  uncouth  play 
Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 

Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay? 

vm. 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well  30 

With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 

Of  the  land  once.     Who  can  tell? 


What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

x. 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 

Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 
Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 

That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say  ?  40 


284  AMPHIBIAN. 


XI. 


But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  oneself  of  tether, 
And  try  a  life  exempt 


XII. 


From  worldly  noise  and  dust. 

In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 
With  passion  and  thought,  —  why,  just 

Unable  to  fly,  one  swims! 


XIII. 


By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 

One  smiles  to  oneself —  ••  They  fare  50 

Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 

Our  sea.  who  live  in  the  air! " 


XIV. 


Emancipate  thro'  passion 

And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 

We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 
For  heaven  —  poetry : 


XV. 


Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 

Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 
As  a  finer  element 

Affords  the  spirit-sort.  60 


Whatever  they  are.  we  seem  : 
Imagine  the  thing  they  know; 

All  deeds  they  do.  we  dream ; 
Can  heaven  be  else  but  so? 


And  meantime,  yonder  streak 
Meets  the  horizon's  verge  : 

That  is  the  land,  to  seek 

If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge  ; 


ST.  MARTINIS  SUMMER.  285 

XVIII. 

Land  the  solid  and  safe  — 

To  welcome  again  (confess!)  70 

When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 

The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

XIX. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 

At  one  who  mimics  flight, 
Swims  —  heaven  above,  sea  under, 

Yet  always  earth  in  sight  ? 


ST.   MARTIN'S   SUMMER. 
i. 

NO  protesting,  dearest ! 
Hardly  kisses  even ! 
Don't  we  both  know  how  it  ends  ? 
How  the  greenest  leaf  turns  serest? 
Bluest  outbreak  —  blankest  heaven  ? 
Lovers  —  friends  ? 

n. 

You  would  build  a  mansion, 
I  would  weave  a  bower 

—  Want  the  heart  for  enterprise. 

Walls  admit  of  no  expansion :  IO 

Trellis-work  may  haply  flower 
Twice  the  size. 

in. 

What  makes  glad  Life's  Winter? 
New  buds,  old  blooms  after. 

Sad  the  sighing  "How  suspect 
Beams  would  ere  mid-Autumn  splinter, 
Rooftree  scarce  support  a  rafter, 
Walls  lie  wrecked  ?  " 

IV. 

You  are  young,  my  princess ! 

I  am  hardly  older :  20 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 

Yet  —  I  steal  a  glance  behind  ! 
Dare  I  tell  you  what  convinces 
Timid  me  that  you,  if  bolder, 
Bold  —  are  blind? 

v. 

Where  we  plan  our  dwelling 
Glooms  a  graveyard  surely  ! 

Headstone,  footstone  moss  may  drape,  — 
Name,  date,  violets  hide  from  spelling,  — 
But,  tho1  corpses  rot  obscurely, 

Ghosts  escape.  30 


Ghosts!     O  breathing  Beauty, 
Give  my  frank  word  pardon! 

What  if  I  —  somehow,  somewhere  — 
Pledged  my  soul  to  endless  duty 
Many  a  time  and  oft  ?     Be  hard  on 
Love  —  laid  there  ? 

VII. 

Nay.  blame  grief  that  \s  fickle, 
Time  that  proves  a  traitor, 

Chance,  change,  all  that  purpose  warps,  — 
Death  who  spares  to  thrust  the  sickle,  40 

Laid  Love  low,  thro'  flowers  which  later 
Shroud  the  corpse! 


And  you,  my  winsome  lady, 
Whisper  with  like  frankness! 

Lies  nothing  buried  long  ago  ? 
Are  yon  —  which  shimmer  mid  the  shady 
Where  moss  and  violet  run  to  rankness  — 
Tombs  or  no  ? 


Who  taxes  you  with  murder? 

My  hands  are  clean  —  or  nearly  !  50 

Love  being  mortal  needs  must  pass. 
Repentance  ?     Nothing  were  absurder. 
Enough  :  we  felt  Love's  loss  severely ; 
Tho'  now  —  alas  ! 


ST.   MARTINIS  SUMMER.  287 

x. 

Love's  corpse  lies  quiet  therefore, 
Only  Love's  ghost  plays  truant, 

And  warns  us  have  in  wholesome  awe 
Durable  mansionry  ;  that 's  wherefore 
I  weave  but  trellis  work,  pursuant 
—  Life,  to  law.  60 

XI. 

The  solid,  not  the  fragile, 

Tempts  rain  and  hail  and  thunder. 

If  bower  stand  firm  at  Autumn's  close, 
Beyond  my  hope,  —  why,  boughs  were  agile ; 
If  bower  fall  flat,  we  scarce  need  wonder 
Wreathing  —  rose! 

XII. 

So,  truce  to  the  protesting, 
So,  muffled  be  the  kisses! 

For,  would  we  but  avow  the  truth, 

Sober  is  genuine  joy.     No  jesting!  70 

Ask  else  Penelope,  Ulysses  — 
Old  in  youth! 

XIII. 

For  why  should  ghosts  feel  angered? 
Let  all  their  interference 

Be  faint  march-music  in  the  air! 
"  Up!     Join  the  rear  of  us  the  vanguard! 
Up,  lovers,  dead  to  all  appearance, 
Laggard  pair !  " 

XIV. 

The  while  you  clasp  me  closer, 
The  while  I  press  you  deeper,  80 

As  safe  we  chuckle,  —  under  breath, 
Yet  all  the  slyer,  the  jocoser, — 

"  So,  life  can  boast  its  day,  like  leap-year, 
Stolen  from  death !  " 

\ 
XV. 

Ah  me  —  the  sudden  terror! 

Hence  quick  —  avaunt,  avoid  me, 
You  cheat,  the  ghostly  flesh-disguised! 


288  JAMES   LEE^S   WIFE. 

Nay,  all  the  ghosts  in  one!     Strange  error  ! 

So,  't  was  Death's  self  that  clipped  and  coyed  me, 
Loved  —  and  lied !  90 

XVI. 

Ay,  dead  loves  are  the  potent ! 
Like  any  cloud  they  used  you, 

Mere  semblance  you,  but  substance  they! 
Build  we  no  mansion,  weave  we  no  tent! 
Mere  flesh  —  their  spirit  interfused  you ! 
Hence,  I  say! 

XVII. 

All  theirs,  none  yours  the  glamour! 
Theirs  each  low  word  that  won  me, 

Soft  look  that  found  me  Love's,  and  left 
What  else  but  you  —  the  tears  and  clamour  loo 

That 's  all  your  very  own!     Undone  me  — 
Ghost  bereft! 


JAMES   LEE'S  WIFE. 

I. 
FAMES  LEE'S  WIFE  SPEAKS  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


AH,  Love,  but  a  day, 
And  the  world  has  changed! 
The  sun  's  away, 

And  the  bird  estranged ; 
The  wind  has  dropped, 

And  the  sky  's  deranged : 
Summer  has  stopped. 

II. 

jLOok  in  my  eyes  ! 

Wilt  thou  change  too? 
Should  I  fear  surprise  ?  xo 

Shall  I  find  aught  new 
In  the  old  and  dear, 

In  the  good  and  true. 
With  the  changing  year? 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE.  289 

in. 

Thou  art  a  man, 

But  I  am  thy  love. 
For  the  lake,  its  swan  ; 

For  the  dell,  its  dove ; 
And  for  thee  —  (oh,  haste!) 

Me,  to  bend  above,  20 

Me,  to  hold  embraced. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 
I. 

Is  all  our  fire  of  shipwreck  wood, 

Oak  and  pine? 
Oh,  for  the  ills  half-understood, 

The  dim  dead  woe 

Long  ago 

Befallen  this  bitter  coast  of  France! 
Well,  poor  sailors  took  their  chance ; 

I  take  mine. 

n. 

A  ruddy  shaft  our  fire  must  shoot 

O'er  the  sea ;  ic 

Do  sailors  eye  the  casement  —  mute, 

Drenched  and  stark, 

From  their  bark  — 
And  envy,  gnash  their  teeth  for  hate 
O1  the  warm  safe  house  and  happy  freight 

—  Thee  and  me? 


God  help  you,  sailors,  at  your  need! 

Spare  the  curse! 
For  some  ships,  safe  in  port  indeed, 

Rot  and  rust,  20 

Run  to  dust, 

All  thro1  worms  i'  the  wood,  which  crept, 
Gnawed  our  hearts  out  while  we  slept : 

That  is  worse. 


290 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE. 


Who  lived  here  before  us  two? 

Old-world  pairs. 
Did  a  woman  ever  —  would  I  knew !  — 

Watch  the  man 

With  whom  began 

Love's  voyage,  full-sail,  —  (now,  gnash  your  teeth !)  30 

When  planks  start,  open  hell  beneath 

Unawares  ? 


III. 

IN  THE   DOORWAY. 
I. 

THE  swallow  has  set  her  six  young  on  the  rail, 

And  looks  seaward : 
The  water 's  in  stripes  like  a  snake,  olive-pale 

To  the  leeward,  — 

On  the  weather-side,  black,  spotted  white  with  the  wind. 
"Good  fortune  departs,  and  disaster  's  behind," 
Hark,  the  wind  with  its  wants  and  its  infinite  wail! 

II. 

Our  fig-tree,  that  leaned  for  the  saltness,  has  furled 

Her  five  fingers, 
Each  leaf  like  a  hand  opened  wide  to  the  world  10 

Where  there  lingers 

No  glint  of  the  gold,  Summer  sent  for  her  sake : 
How  the  vines  writhe  in  rows,  each  impaled  on  its  stake! 
My  heart  shrivels  up  and  my  spirit  shrinks  curled. 

in. 

Yet  here  are  we  two ;  we  have  love,  house  enough, 

With  the  field  there, 
This  house  of  four  rooms,  that  field  red  and  rough, 

Tho1  it  yield  there, 

For  the  rabbit  that  robs,  scarce  a  blade  or  a  bent ; 
If  a  magpie  alight  now,  it  seems  an  event ;  20 

And  they  both  will  be  gone  at  November's  rebuff. 


But  why  must  cold  spread?  but  wherefore  bring  change 
To  the  spirit, 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE.  29 1 

God  meant  should  mate  his  with  an  infinite  range, 

And  inherit 

His  power  to  put  life  in  the  darkness  and  cold? 
Oh,  live  and  love  worthily,  bear  and  be  bold! 
Whom  Summer  made  friends  of,  let  Winter  estrange! 


IV. 

ALONG   THE   BEACH. 


I  WILL  be  quiet  and  talk  with  you, 
And  reason  why  you  are  wrong. 

You  wanted  my  love  —  is  that  much  true? 

And  so  I  did  love,  so  I  do : 
What  has  come  of  it  all  along? 


I  took  you  —  how  could  I  otherwise? 

For  a  world  to  me,  and  more  ; 
For  all,  love  greatens  and  glorifies 
Till  God  's  a-glow,  to  the  loving  eyes, 

In  what  was  mere  earth  before.  IO 

in. 

Yes,  earth  —  yes,  mere  ignoble  earth ! 

Now  do  I  mis-state,  mistake  ? 
Do  I  wrong  your  weakness  and  call  it  worth  ? 
Expect  all  harvest,  dread  no  dearth, 

Seal  my  sense  up  for  your  sake? 

IV. 

Oh,  Love,  Love,  no,  Love!  not  so  indeed! 

You  were  just  weak  earth,  I  knew  : 
With  much  in  you  waste,  with  many  a  weed 
And  plenty  of  passions  run  to  seed, 

But  a  little  good  grain  too.  20 

v. 

And  such  as  you  were,  I  took  you  for  mine : 

Did  not  you  find  me  yours, 
To  watch  the  olive  and  wait  the  vine, 


292  JAMES  LEE'S   WIFE. 

And  wonder  when  rivers  of  oil  and  wine 
Would  flow,  as  the  Book  assures? 


VI. 

Well,  and  if  none  of  these  good  things  came, 

What  did  the  failure  prove  ? 
The  man  was  my  whole  world,  all  the  same, 
With  his  flowers  to  praise  or  his  weeds  to  blame, 

And,  either  or  both,  to  love. 

VII. 

Yet  this  turns  now  to  a  fault  —  there!  there! 

That  I  do  love,  watch  too  long, 
And  wait  too  well,  and  weary  and  wear  ; 
And  't  is  all  an  old  story,  and  my  despair 

Fit  subject  for  some  new  song  : 


"  How  the  light,  light  love,  he  has  wings  to  fly 

At  suspicion  of  a  bond : 

My  wisdom  has  bidden  your  pleasure  good-bye, 
Which  will  turn  up  next  in  a  laughing  eye, 

And  why  should  you  look  beyond  ?  "  40 


V. 

ON  THE  CLIFF. 

I. 

I  LEANED  on  the  turf, 

I  looked  at  a  rock 

Left  dry  by  the  surf; 

For  the  turf,  to  call  it  grass  were  to  mock : 

Dead  to  the  roots,  so  deep  was  done 

The  work  of  the  summer  sun. 

II. 

And  the  rock  lay  flat 

As  an  anvil's  face : 

No  iron  like  that ! 

Baked  dry:  of  a  weed,  of  a  shell,  no  trace:  10 

Sunshine  outside,  but  ice  at  the  core, 

Death's  altar  by  the  lone  shore. 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE.  293 

m. 

On  the  turf,  sprang  gay 

With  his  films  of  blue, 

No  cricket,  I  '11  say, 

But  a  war-horse,  barded  and  chanfroned  top. 

The  gift  of  a  quixote-mage  to  his  knight, 

Real  fairy,  with  wings  all  right. 

iv. 

On  the  rock,  they  scorch 

Like  a  drop  of  fire  20 

From  a  brandished  torch, 

Fall  two  red  fans  of  a  butterfly : 

No  turf,  no  rock,  —  in  their  ugly  stead, 

See,  wonderful  blue  and  red! 

v. 

Is  it  not  so 

With  the  minds  of  men? 

The  level  and  low, 

The  burnt  and  bare,  in  themselves ;  but  then 

With  such  a  blue  and  red  grace,  not  theirs, 

Love  settling  unawares !  30 


VI. 

READING  A   BOOK,   UNDER   THE   CLIFF. 


"  STILL  ailing,  Wind?     Wilt  be  appeased  or  no? 

Which  needs  the  other's  office,  thou  or  I  ? 
Dost  want  to  be  disburthened  of  a  woe, 

And  can,  in  truth,  my  voice  untie 
Its  links,  and  let  it  go? 

n. 

"Art  thou  a  dumb  wronged  thing  that  would  be  righted. 

Entrusting  thus  thy  cause  to  me?     Forbear! 
No  tongue  can  mend  such  pleadings ;  faith,  requited 

With  falsehood,  —  Love,  at  last  aware 
Of  scorn,  —  hopes,  early  blighted, —  10 


JAMES  LEE'S   WIFE. 


in. 


"  We  have  them ;  but  I  know  not  any  tone 
So  fit  as  thine  to  falter  forth  a  sorrow  : 

Dost  think  men  would  go  mad  without  a  moan, 
If  they  knew  any  way  to  borrow 

A  pathos  like  thine  own? 


rv. 


"Which  sigh  wouldst  mock,  of  all  the  sighs?     The  one 

So  long  escaping  from  lips  starved  and  blue, 
That  lasts  while  on  her  pallet-bed  the  nun 

Stretches  her  length  ;  her  foot  comes  through 
The  straw  she  shivers  on ;  20 

v. 

"  You  had  not  thought  she  was  so  tall :  and  spent, 

Her  shrunk  lids  open,  her  lean  fingers  shut 
Close,  close,  their  sharp  and  livid  nails  indent 

The  clammy  palm  ;  then  all  is  mute : 
That  way,  the  spirit  went. 

VI. 

u  Or  wouldst  thou  rather  that  I  understand 

Thy  will  to  help  me?  —  like  the  dog  I  found 
Once,  pacing  sad  this  solitary  strand, 

Who  would  not  take  my  food,  poor  hound, 
But  whined  and  licked  my  hand."  30 

VII. 

All  this,  and  more,  comes  from  some  young  man's  pride 

Of  power  to  see, —  in  failure  and  mistake, 
Relinquishment,  disgrace,  on  every  side, — 

Merely  examples  for  his  sake, 
Helps  to  his  path  untried : 

VIII. 

Instances  he  must  —  simply  recognize? 

Oh,  more  than  so!  —  must,  with  a  learner's  zeal, 
Make  doubly  prominent,  twice  emphasize, 

By  added  touches  that  reveal 
The  god  in  babe's  disguise.  40 

IX. 

Oh,  he  knows  what  defeat  means,  and  the  rest! 
Himself  the  undefeated  that  shall  be : 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE.  395 

failure,  disgrace,  he  flings  them  you  to  test,  — 

His  triumph,  in  eternity 
Too  plainly  manifest ! 


x. 


Whence,  judge  if  he  learn  forthwith  what  the  wind 
Means  in  its  moaning  —  by  the  happy  prompt 

Instinctive  way  of  youth,  I  mean ;  for  kind 
Calm  years,  exacting  their  accompt 

Of  pain,  mature  the  mind  :  50 


And  some  midsummer  morning,  at  the  lull 

Just  about  daybreak,  as  he  looks  across 
A  sparkling  foreign  country,  wonderful 

To  the  sea's  edge  for  gloom  and  gloss, 
Next  minute  must  annul,  — 

XII. 

Then,  when  the  wind  begins  among  the  vines, 

So  low,  so  low,  what  shall  it  say  but  this? 
"Here  is  the  change  beginning,  here  the  lines 

Circumscribe  beauty,  set  to  bliss 
The  limit  time  assigns."  60 

XIII. 

Nothing  can  be  as  it  has  been  before ; 

Better,  so  call  it,  only  not  the  same. 
To  draw  one  beauty  into  our  hearts'  core 

And  keep  it  changeless  !  such  our  claim  ; 
So  answered,  —  Never  more! 

XIV. 

Simple?    Why  this  is  the  old  woe  o'  the  world; 

Tune,  to  whose  rise  and  fall  we  live  and  die. 
Rise  with  it,  then !     Rejoice  that  man  is  hurled 

From  change  to  change  unceasingly, 
His  soul's  wings  never  furled!  70 

xv. 

That 's  a  new  question  ;  still  replies  the  fact, 
Nothing  endures  :  the  wind  moans,  saying  so ; 

We  moan  in  acquiescence :  there  's  life's  pact, 
Perhaps  probation  —  do  /  know ? 

God  does  :  endure  his  act! 


296  JAMES  LEE'S   WIFE. 


XVI. 


Only,  for  man,  how  bitter  not  to  grave 

On  his  soul's  hands'  palms  one  fair  good  wise  thing 
Just  as  he  grasped  it !     For  himself,  death's  wave ; 
While  time  first  washes  —  ah,  the  sting!  — 
O'er  all  he  'd  sink  to  save.  80 


VII. 

AMONG   THE   ROCKS. 
I. 

OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning!     How  he  sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth  ; 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 


That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true ; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you  :  10 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above ! 


VIII. 

BESIDE    THE  DRAWING-BOARD. 
I. 

"As  like  as  a  Hand  to  another  Hand!" 

Whoever  said  that  foolish  thing. 
Could  not  have  studied  to  understand 
The  counsels  of  God  in  fashioning, 
Out  of  the  infinite  love  of  his  heart, 
This  Hand,  whose  beauty  I  praise,  apart 
From  the  world  of  wonder  left  to  praise, 


JAMES  LEE'S   WIFE. 


297 


If  I  tried  to  learn  the  other  ways 

Of  love  in  its  skill,  or  love  in  its  power. 

"  As  like  as  a  Hand  to  another  Hand :  "  10 

Who  said  that,  never  took  his  stand, 
Found  and  followed,  like  me,  an  hour, 
The  beauty  in  this,  —  how  free,  how  fine 
To  fear,  almost, — of  the  limit-line! 
As  I  looked  at  this,  and  learned  and  drew, 

Drew  and  learned,  and  looked  again, 
While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 

Its  beauty  mounted  into  my  brain, 

And  a  fancy  seized  me  ;  I  was  fain 

To  efface  my  work,  begin  anew,  20 

Kiss  what  before  I  only  drew ; 
Ay,  laying  the  red  chalk  'twixt  my  lips, 

With  soul  to  help  if  the  mere  lips  failed, 

I  kissed  all  right  where  the  drawing  ailed, 
Kissed  fast  the  grace  that  somehow  slips 
Still  from  one's  soulless  finger-tips. 

II. 

'T  is  a  clay  cast,  the  perfect  thing, 

From  Hand  live  once,  dead  long  ago : 
Princess-like  it  wears  the  ring 

To  fancy's  eye,  by  which  we  know  30 

That  here  at  length  a  master  found 

His  match,  a  proud  lone  soul  its  mate, 
As  soaring  genius  sank  to  ground, 

And  pencil  could  not  emulate 
The  beauty  in  this,  —  how  free,  how  fine 
To  fear  almost!  —  of  the  limit-line. 
Long  ago  the  god,  like  me 
The  worm,  learned,  each  in  our  degree : 
Looked  and  loved,  learned  and  drew, 

Drew  and  learned  and  loved  again,  40 

While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 

Till  beauty  mounted  into  his  brain 
And  on  the  finger  which  outvied 

His  art  he  placed  the  ring  that 's  there, 
Still  by  fancy's  eye  descried, 

In  token  of  a  marriage  rare : 
For  him  on  earth,  his  arts  despair, 
For  him  in  heaven,  his  soul's  fit  bride. 

in. 

Little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand 

I  turned  from  to  a  cold  clay  cast  —  50 


298  JAMES  LEE'S    WIFE. 

I  have  my  lesson,  understand 

The  worth  of  flesh  and  blood  at  last! 
Nothing  but  beauty  in  a  Hand  ? 

Because  he  could  not  change  the  hue, 

Mend  the  lines  and  make  them  true 
To  this  which  met  his  soul's  demand,  — 

Would  Da  Vinci  turn  from  you  ? 
I  hear  him  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn  — 
"  The  fool  forsooth  is  all  forlorn 

Because  the  beauty,  she  thinks  best,  60 

Lived  long  ago  or  was  never  born.  — 
Because  no  beauty  bears  the  test 
In  this  rough  peasant  Hand!     Confessed! 
'Art  is  null  and  study  void!' 
So  sayest  thou?     So  said  not  I. 
Who  threw  the  faulty  pencil  by. 
And  years  instead  of  hours  employed, 
Learning  the  veritable  use 
Of  flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  beneath 
Lines  and  hue  of  the  outer  sheath,  70 

If  haply  I  might  reproduce 
One  motive  of  the  powers  profuse 
Flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  that  make 
The  poorest  coarsest  human  hand 
An  object  worthy  to  be  scanned 
A  whole  life  long  for  their  sole  sake. 
Shall  earth  and  the  cramped  moment-space 
Yield  the  heavenly  crowning  grace  ? 
Now  the  parts  and  then  the  whole! 

Who  art  thou,  with  stinted  soul  80 

And  stunted  body,  thus  to  cry 
'  I  love,  —  shall  that  be  life's  strait  dole  ? 
I  must  live  beloved  or  die!1 
This  peasant  hand  that  spins  the  wool 
And  bakes  the  bread,  why  lives  it  on, 
Poor  and  coarse  with  beauty  gone,  — 
What  use  survives  the  beauty? "     Fool! 

Go,  little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand! 

I  have  my  lesson,  shall  understand.  90 


JAMES  LEE^S   WIFE.  299 

IX. 

ON   DECK. 


THERE  is  nothing  to  remember  in  me, 

Nothing  I  ever  said  with  a  grace, 
Nothing  I  did  that  you  care  to  see, 

Nothing  I  was  that  deserves  a  place 
In  your  mind,  now  I  leave  you,  set  you  free. 

II. 

Conceded!     In  turn,  concede  to  me, 

Such  things  have  been  as  a  mutual  flame. 
Your  soul  's  locked  fast ;  but,  love  for  a  key, 

You  might  let  it  loose,  till  I  grew  the  same 
In  your  eyes,  as  in  mine  you  stand  :  strange  plea!  10 

in. 

For  then,  then,  what  would  it  matter  to  me 

That  I  was  the  harsh,  ill-favoured  one? 
We  both  should  be  like  as  pea  and  pea ; 

It  was  ever  so  since  the  world  begun : 
So,  let  me  proceed  with  my  reverie. 


How  strange  it  were  if  you  had  all  me, 

As  I  have  all  you  in  my  heart  and  brain, 
You,  whose  least  word  brought  gloom  or  glee, 

Who  never  lifted  the  hand  in  vain 
Will  hold  mine  yet,  from  over  the  sea!  20 

v. 

Strange,  if  a  face,  when  you  thought  of  me, 

Rose  like  your  own  face  present  now, 
With  eyes  as  dear  in  their  due  degree, 

Much  such  a  mouth,  and  as  bright  a  brow, 
Till  you  saw  yourself,  while  you  cried  "'T  is  She!" 

VI. 

Well,  you  may,  you  must,  set  down  to  me 

Love  that  was  life,  life  that  was  love ; 
A  tenure  of  breath  at  your  lips'  decree, 

A  passion  to  stand  as  your  thoughts  approve, 
A  rapture  to  fall  where  your  foot  might  be.  30 


300 


RESPECTABILITY. 

VII. 

But  did  one  touch  of  such  love  for  me 

Come  in  a  word  or  a  look  of  yours, 
Whose  words  and  looks  will,  circling,  flee 

Round  me  and  round  while  life  endures, — 
Could  I  fancy  "  As  I  feel,  thus  feels  He ; " 

VIII. 

Why,  fade  you  might  to  a  thing  like  me, 

And  your  hair  grow  these  coarse  hanks  of  hair, 

Your  skin,  this  bark  of  a  gnarled  tree, — 

You  might  turn  myself !  —  should  I  know  or  care, 

When  I  should  be  dead  of  joy,  James  Lee?  40 


RESPECTABILITY, 
i. 

DEAR,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 
Deigned  to  proclaim  "  I  know  you  both, 
Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth, 
Am  sponsor  for  you  :  live  in  peace  ! " 
How  many  precious  months  and  years 
Of  youth  had  passed,  that  speed  so  fast, 
Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 
The  world,  and  what  it  fears  ? 

II. 

How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 

With  men  that  every  virtue  decks,  IO 

And  women  models  of  their  sex, 
Society's  true  ornament,  — 
Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 

Thro'  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the  Seine. 

And  feel  the  Boulevard  break  again 
To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss  ? 

in. 

I  know!  the  world  proscribes  not  love; 

Allows  my  ringer  to  caress 

Your  lips1  contour  and  downiness, 
Provided  it  supply  a  glove.  2O 


D/S  ALITER    VISUM. 

The  world's  good  word  !  —  the  Institute  ! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert! 

Eh  ?     Down  the  court  three  lampions  flare : 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 


DIS    ALITER    VISUM  ;    OR,   LE    BYRON    DE    NOS    JOURS. 


STOP,  let  me  have  the  truth  of  that ! 
Is  that  all  true  ?     I  say,  the  day 
Ten  years  ago  when  both  of  us 

Met  on  a  morning,  friends  —  as  thus 
We  meet  this  evening,  friends  or  what  ?• 


Did  you  —  because  I  took  your  arm 

And  sillily  smiled,  "A  mass  of  brass 
That  sea  looks,  blazing  underneath  !" 

While  up  the  cliff-road  edged  with  heath, 
We  took  the  turns  nor  came  to  harm —  10 


Did  you  consider  "  Now  makes  twice 
That  I  have  seen  her,  walked  and  talked 

With  this  poor  pretty  thoughtful  thing, 
Whose  worth  I  weigh :  she  tries  to  sing ; 

Draws,  hopes  in  time  the  eye  grows  nice ; 


"  Reads  verse  and  thinks  she  understands ; 

Loves  all,  at  any  rate,  that 's  great, 
Good,  beautiful ;  but  much  as  we 

Down  at  the  bath-house  love  the  sea, 
Who  breathe  its  salt  and  bruise  its  sands :  20 


"While  ...  do  but  follow  the  fishing-gull 
That  flaps  and  floats  from  wave  to  cave! 

There  's  the  sea-lover,  fair  my  friend! 

What  then?     Be  patient,  mark  and  mend! 

Had  you  the  making  of  your  skull?  " 


ALITER    VISUM. 


VI. 

And  did  you,  when  we  faced  the  church 

With  spire  and  sad  slate  roof,  aloof 
From  human  fellowship  so  far, 

Where  a  few  graveyard  crosses  are, 
And  garlands  for  the  swallows1  perch,  —  30 


VII. 

Did  you  determine,  as  we  stepped 

O'er  the  lone  stone  fence,  "  Let  me  get 

Her  for  myself,  and  what  's  the  earth 
With  all  its  art,  verse,  music,  worth  — 

Compared  with  love,  found,  gained,  and  kept  ? 


"  Schumann  's  our  music-maker  now  ; 

Has  his  march-movement  youth  and  mouth? 
Ingres  's  the  modern  man  that  paints  ; 

Which  will  lean  on  me,  of  his  saints? 
Heine  for  songs  ;  for  kisses, how?"  40 


And  did  you,  when  we  entered,  reached 

The  votive  frigate,  soft  aloft 
Riding  on  air  this  hundred  years, 

Safe-smiling  at  old  hopes  and  fears, — 
Did  you  draw  profit  while  she  preached? 


Resolving,  "Fools  we  wise  men  grow: 

Yes,  I  could  easily  blurt  out  curt 
Some  question  that  might  find  reply 

As  prompt  in  her  stopped  lips,  dropped  eye 
And  rush  of  red  to  cheek  and  brow  :  50 


"  Thus  were  a  match  made,  sure  and  fast. 

'Mid  the  blue  weed-flowers  round  the  mound 
Where,  issuing,  we  shall  stand  and  stay 

For  one  more  look  at  baths  and  bay, 
Sands,  sea-gulls,  and  the  old  church  last  — 


DIS  ALITER    VISUM.  303 


"  A  match  'twixt  me,  beat,  wigged  and  lamed, 

Famous,  however,  for  verse  and  worse, 
Sure  of  the  Fortieth  spare~A"rm-chalr~~ 

When  gout  and  glory  seat  me  there, 
So,  one  whose  love-freaks  pass  unblamed,  —  60 


XIII. 

"  And  this  young  beauty,  round  and  sound 
As  a  mountain-apple,  youth  and  truth 

With  loves  and  doves,  at  all  events" 
With  money  in  the  Three  per  Cents ; 

Whose  choice  of  me  would  seem  profound:  — 


XIV. 

"  She  might  take  me  as  I  take  her. 

Perfect  the  hour  would  pass,  alasj 
Climb  high,  love  high,  whaffnatter?     Still, 

Feet,  feelings,  must  descend  the  hill : 
An  hour's  perfection  can't  recur.  70 


XV. 

"  Then  follows  Paris  and  full  time 

For  both  to  reason  :  '  Thus  with  us,' 
She  '11  sigh,  '  Thus  girls  give  body  and  soul 

At  first  word,  think  they  gain  the  goal, 
When  rt  is  the  starting-place  they  climb! 

XVI. 

" '  My  friend  makes  verse  and  gets  renown ; 

Have  they  all  fifty  years,  his  peers  ? 
He  knows  the  world,  firm,  quiet  and  gay ; 

Boys  will  become  as  much  one  day : 
They  Ve  fools  ;  he  cheats,  with  beard  less  brown.  80 

XVII. 

"  '  For  boys  say,  Love  me  or  I  die ! 

He  did  not  say,  The  truth  is,  youth 
I  want,  who  am  old  and  know  too  much  ; 

•/  \i  catch  youth  :  lend  me  sight  and  touch  ' 
Drop  heart's  blood  where  life's  wheels  grate  dry  ! ' 


304 


DJS   ALITER    VISUM. 


"  While  I  should  make  rejoinder  "  —  (then 

It  was,  no  doubt,  you  ceased  that  least 
Light  pressure  of  my  arm  in  yours) 

I  can  conceive  of  cheaper  cures 
For  a  yawning-fit  o'er  books  and  men.  90 


"  '  What  ?     All  I  am,  was,  and  might  be, 

All,  books  taught,  art  brought,  life's  whole  strife, 

Painful  results  since  precious,  just 

Were  fitly  exchanged,  in  wise  disgust, 

For  two  cheeks  freshened  by  youth  and  sea? 


XX. 

"  '  All  for  a  nosegay!  —  what  came  first ; 

With  fields  in  flower,  untried  each  side; 
I  rally,  need  my  books  and  men, 

And  find  a  nosegay : '  drop  it,  then, 
No  match  yet  made  for  best  or  worst!  "  loo 


XXI. 

That  ended  me.     You  judged  the  porch 
We  left  by,  Norman ;  took  our  look 

At  sea  and  sky  ;  wondered  so  few 
Find  out  the  place  for  air  and  view ; 

Remarked  the  sun  began  to  scorch ; 


Descended,  soon  regained  the  baths, 

And  then,  good-bye  !     Years  ten  since  then : 

Ten  years  !     We  meet :  you  tell  me,  now, 
By  a  window-seat  for  that  cliff-brow, 

On  carpet-stripes  for  those  sand-paths.  no 

XXIII. 

Now  I  may  speak :  you  fool,  for  all 

Your  lore  !     WHO  made  things  plain  in  vain  ? 

What  was  the  sea  for  ?     What,  the  gray 
Sad  church,  that  solitary  day, 

Crosses  and  graves  and  swallows'  call  ? 


DfS  ALITER    VISUM.  305 


XXIV. 


Was  there  naught  better  than  to  enjoy? 

No  feat  which,  done,  would  make  time  break. 
And  let  us  pent-up  creatures  through 

Into  eternity,  our  due? 
No  forcing  earth  teach  heaven's  employ  ?  120 


xxv. 


No  wise  beginning,  here  and  now, 

What  cannot  grow  complete  (earth's  feat) 

And  heaven  must  finish,  there  and  then? 
No  tasting  earth's  true  food  for  men, 

Its  sweet  in  sad,  its  sad  in  sweet? 


XXVI. 


No  grasping  at  love,  gaining  a  share 

O1  the  sole  spark  from  God's  life  at  strife 
With  death,  so,  sure  of  range  above 

The  limits  here?     For  us  and  love, 
Failure;  but,  when  God  fails,  despair.  130 


xxvn. 


This  you  call  wisdom  ?  Thus  you  add 
Good  unto  good  again,  in  vain  ? 

You  loved,  with  body  worn  and  weak ; 
I  loved,  with  faculties  to  seek : 

Were  both  loves  worthless  since  ill-clad? 


XXVIII. 


Let  the  mere  star-fish  in  his  vault 

Crawl  in  a  wash  of  weed,  indeed, 
Rose-jacynth  to  the  finger-tips  : 

He,  whole  in  body  and  soul,  outstrips 
Man,  found  with  either  in  default.  140 


XXIX. 

But  what 's  whole,  can  increase  no  more, 
Is  dwarfed  and  dies,  since  here  's  its  sphere. 

The  devil  laughed  at  you  in  his  sleeve! 
You  knew  not?     That  I  well  believe ; 

Or  you  had  saved  two  souls :  nay,  four. 
x 


3o6  CONFESSIONS. 


XXX. 


For  Stephanie  sprained  last  night  her  wrist, 

Ankle  or  something.     "  Pooh,"  cry  you? 
At  any  rate  she  danced,  all  say, 

Vilely ;  her  vogue  has  had  its  day. 
Here  comes  my  husband  from  his  whist.  150 


CONFESSIONS. 

I. 

WHAT  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears? 
"Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears?" 
Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 

n. 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge,  —  is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 


in. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry  IO 

O'er  the  garden-wall :  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 


rv. 

To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall ; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labeled  "  Ether" 

Is  the  house  o'er-topping  all. 

V. 

At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper, 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it 's  improper, 

My  poor  mind  's  out  of  tune.  20 


THE  HOUSEHOLDER.     '  307 

VI. 

Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except : 

They  styled  their  house  "  The  Lodge." 

VII. 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help,  — their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 

VIII. 

Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there,  30 

By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labeled  "  Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 


IX. 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.    Alas, 

We  loved,  sir  —  used  to  meet : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet! 


THE   HOUSEHOLDER. 

I. 

SAVAGE  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late,  lone : 
Dreary,  weary  with  the  long  day's  work  : 
Head  of  me,  heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a  stone  : 

Tongue-tied  now,  now  blaspheming  like  a  Turk; 
When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock,  call,  cry, 

Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there  again  were  we! — 
u  What,  and  is  it  really  you  again  ?  "  quoth  I : 
"  1  again,  what  else  did  you  expect? "  quoth  She. 

n. 

"Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old  house  — 

Every  crumbling  brick  embrowned  with  sin  and  shame!        10 


308  TRAY. 

Quick,  in  its  corners  ere  certain  shapes  arouse! 

Let  them  —  every  devil  of  the  night  —  lay  claim, 
Make  and  mend,  or  rap  and  rend,  for  me!     Goodbye! 

God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance  at  their  glee, 
Till,  crash,  comes  down  the  carcass  in  a  heap  ! "  quoth  I : 

"  Nay,  but  there 's  a  decency  required!  "  quoth  She. 

in. 

"Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  time  has  dragged,  days,  nights! 

All  the  neighbour-talk  with  man  and  maid  —  such  men! 
All  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  street-sounds,  window-sights : 

All  the  worry  of  flapping  door  and  echoing  roof:  and  then, 
All  the  fancies  .  .  .     Who  were  they  had  leave,  dared  try 

Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  despair  in  me? 
If  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down  here!"   quoth  I : 

"And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there?"  quoth  She. 


"  Help  and  get  it  over  !  Re-united  to  his  wife 

(How  dra\v  up  the  paper  lets  the  parish-people  know?) 
Lies  M.  or  JV.,  departed  from  this  life, 

Day  the  this  or  that,  month  and  year  the  so  and  so, 
What  T  the  way  of  final  flourish  ?     Prose,  verse?     Try  ! 

Affliction  sore,  long  time  he  bore,  or,  what  is  it  to  be  ?         30 
Till  God  did  please  to  grant  him  ease.     Do  end! "  quoth  I : 

"  I  end  with  —  Love  is  all  and  Death  is  naught !  "  quoth  She. 


TRAY. 

SING  me  a  hero !    Quench  my  thirst 
Of  soul,  ye  bards ! 

Quoth  Bard  the  first : 
"  Sir  Olaf,  the  good  knight,  did  don 
His  helm  and  eke  his  habergeon.  .  ." 
Sir  Olaf  and  his  bard ! 

"That  sin-scathed  brow"  (quoth  Bard  the  second), 

"  That  eye  wide  ope  as  tho1  Fate  beckoned 

My  hero  to  some  steep,  beneath 

Which  precipice  smiled  tempting  Death  .  .  ." 

You  too  without  your  host  have  reckoned!  10 


TRAY.  309 

«A  beggar-child"  (let 's  hear  this  third!) 
"  Sat  on  a  quay's  edge  :  like  a  bird 
Sang  to  herself  at  careless  play, 
And  fell  into  the  stream.     '  Dismay! 
Help,  you  the  standers-by ! '    None  stirred. 

"  Bystanders  reason,  think  of  wives 

And  children  ere  they  risk  their  lives. 

Over  the  balustrade  has  bounced 

A  mere  instinctive  dog,  and  pounced 

Plumb  on  the  prize.     'How  well  he  dives!  20 

u '  Up  he  comes  with  the  child,  see,  tight 
In  mouth,  alive  too,  clutched  from  quite 
A  depth  often  feet  —  twelve,  1  bet! 
Good  dog  !     What,  off  again?    There 's  yet 
Another  child  to  save  ?     All  right ! 

"'How  strange  we  saw  no  other  fall! 

It's  instinct  in  the  animal. 

Good  dog!     But  he 's  a  long  while  under: 

If  he  got  drowned  I  should  not  wonder  — 

Strong  current,  that  against  the  wall!  30 

"'Here  he  comes,  holds  in  mouth  this  time 

—  What  may  the  thing  be?     Well,  that  's  prime! 

Now,  did  you  ever?     Reason  reigns 

In  man  alone,  since  all  Tray's  pains 

Have  fished — the  child's  doll  from  the  slime!' 

"  And  so,  amid  the  laughter  gay, 

Trotted  my  hero  off,  —  old  Tray,  — 

Till  somebody,  prerogatived 

With  reason,  reasoned  :  '  Why  he  dived, 

His  brain  would  show  us,  I  should  say.  40 

Ui  John,  go  and  catch  — or,  if  needs  be, 

Purchase  that  animal  for  me! 

By  vivisection,  at  expense 

Of  half-an-hour  and  eighteen  pence, 

How  brain  secretes  dog's  soul,  we  '11  see ! '" 


CAVALIER    TUNES. 

CAVALIER  TUNES. 
I. 

MARCHING   ALONG. 
I. 

TV'ENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
J^w.  Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing : 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 


God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries! 

Cavaliers,  up!     Lips  from  the  cup, 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup  10 

Till  you  're  — 

(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

in. 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies1  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well ! 
England,  good  cheer!     Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 

(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song? 

IV. 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles!     Pym  and  his  snarls 

To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles!  20 

Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might : 

So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 

(Chorus)  March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  I 


CAVALIER   TUNES. 

II. 

GIVE  A  ROUSE. 
I. 

KING  CHARLES,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  nc  v  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who  7s  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

ir. 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 

Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 

Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 

Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

(Chorus)  King  Charles,  and  who '//  do  him  right  now  ? 

King  Charles,  and  who  V  ripe  for  fight  now  ?  ro 
Give  a  rouse :  here  ''s,  in  heWs  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

III. 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quafF  else, 

By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 

For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 

While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 

(Chorus)  King  Charles,  and  who  '//  do  him  right  now  f 
King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse :  here  ''s,  in  heWs  despite  now, 
King  Charles  !  20 


III. 

BOOT  AND   SADDLE. 
I. 

BOOT,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray, 

(Chorus)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  \ 


312 


BEFORE. 

II. 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you  'd  say ; 
Many  's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay  — 

(Chorus')  "  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! " 

ill. 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 

Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads1  array:  10 

Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 

(Chorus)  "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  I" 

IV. 

Who?     My  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay! 
I  've  better  counsellors  ;  what  counsel  they? 

(Chorus)  "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  !  " 


BEFORE. 
I. 

LET  them  fight  it  out,  friend!  things  have  gone  too  far. 
God  must  judge  the  couple  :  leave  them  as  they  are 
—  Whichever  one  's  the  guiltless,  to  his  glory, 
And  whichever  one  the  guilt 's  with,  to  my  story! 

II. 

Why,  you  would  not  bid  men,  sunk  in  such  a  slough, 
Strike  no  arm  out  further,  stick  and  stink  as  now, 
Leaving  right  and  wrong  to  settle  the  embroilment, 
Heaven  with  snaky  hell,  in  torture  and  entoilment? 

in. 

Who  's  the  culprit  of  them?     How  must  he  conceive 

God  —  the  queen  he  caps  to,  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  10 

"  'T  is  but  decent  to  profess  oneself  beneath  her : 

Still,  one  must  not  be  too  much  in  earnest,  either! " 

IV. 

Better  sin  the  whole  sin,  sure  that  God  observes ; 
Then  go  live  his  life  out!     Life  will  try  his  nerves, 


BEFORE. 

When  the  sky,  which  noticed  all,  makes  no  disclosure, 
And  the  earth  keeps  up  her  terrible  composure. 


313 


v. 


Let  him  pace  at  pleasure,  past  the  walls  of  rose, 

Pluck  their  fruits  when  grape-trees  graze  him  as  he  goes! 

For  he  'gins  to  guess  the  purpose  of  the  garden, 

With  the  sly  mute  thing,  beside  there,  for  a  warden.  20 


VI. 


What 's  the  leopard-dog-thing,  constant  at  his  side, 
A  leer  and  lie  in  every  eye  of  its  obsequious  hide? 
When  will  come  an  end  to  all  the  mock  obeisance, 
And  the  price  appear  that  pays  for  the  misfeasance  ? 


VII. 


So  much  for  the  culprit.     Who  's  the  martyred  man? 
Let  him  bear  one  stroke  more,  for  be  sure  he  can! 
He  that  strove  thus  evil's  lump  with  good  to  leaven, 
Let  him  give  his  blood  at  last  and  get  his  heaven! 


VIII. 


All  or  nothing,  stake  it!     Trusts  he  God  or  no? 

Thus  far  and  no  farther?  farther?  be  it  so!  3<J 

Now,  enough  of  your  chicane  of  prudent  pauses, 

Sage  provisos,  sub-intents  and  saving-clauses! 


IX. 


Ah,  "Forgive"  you  bid  him?    While  God's  champion  lives, 
.Wrong  shall  be  resisted:  dead,  why,  he  forgives. 
But  you  must  not  end  my  friend  ere  you  begin  him ; 
Evil  stands  not  crowned  on  earth,  while  breath  is  in  him. 


Once  more  —  Will  the  wronger,  at  this  last  of  all, 

Dare  to  say,  " I  did  wrong,"  rising  in  his  fall? 

No?  —  Let  go,  then!     Both  the  fighters  to  their  places! 

While  I  count  three,  step  you  back  as  many  paces!  40 


3!4  AFTER. 


AFTER. 

*~pAKE  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  at  first 
JL     Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst! 

How  he  lies  in  his  rights  of  a  man! 

Death  has  done  all  death  can : 
And,  absorbed  in  the  new  life  he  leads, 

He  recks  not,  he  heeds 
Nor  his  wrong  nor  my  vengeance ;  both  strike 

On  his  senses  alike, 
And  are  lost  in  the  solemn  and  strange 

Surprise  of  the  change.  10 

Ha,  what  avails  death  to  erase        f 

His  offence,  my  disgrace? 
I  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old 

In  the  field,  by  the  fold : 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man's  scorn 

Were  so  easily  borne ! 

I  stand  here  now,  he  lies  in  his  place : 
Cover  the  face ! 


HERVE  RIEL. 
I. 

ON  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety  two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French,  —  woe  to  France! 
And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  thro1  the  blue,    . 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 

Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


'T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full  chase ; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Damfreville ; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 

Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ;  10 

And  they  signaled  to  the  place 
"  Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbour,  take  us  quick  —  or,  quicker  still, 
Here  's  the  English  can  and  will ! " 


RIEL. 


31  5 


in. 


Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt  on  board  ; 

"  Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to  pass?  "  laughed 

they  : 

"  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred  and  scored, 
Shall  the  '  Formidable  '  here  with  her  twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons,  20 

And  with  now  at  full  beside  ? 
Now  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  !  " 

rv. 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  : 

"  Here  's  the  English  at  our  heels  ;  would  you  have  them  take  in  tow 

All  that  's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and  bow, 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ?  30 

Better  run  the  ships  aground!  " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 

"  Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

v. 

"  Give  the  word  !  "     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these 
—  A  Captain  ?     A  Lieutenant  ?     A  Mate  —  first,  second,  third  ?  40 

"No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 

With  his  betters  to  compete! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve'  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

VI. 

And,  "  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here  ?  "  cries  Nerve"  Riel  : 

"  Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?     Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Grave  where  the  river  disembogues? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?     Is  it  love  the  lying  's  for?  50 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 


316  HERVE  KIEL. 

Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 

Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?    That  were  worse  than  fifty  Hogues  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !    Sirs,  believe  me  there  's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  '•Formidable^  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know  well,  60 

Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 

—  Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I  've  nothing  but  my  life,  —  here  's  my  head  !  "  cries  Herve  Kiel. 

VII. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron ! "  cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief.  70 

Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace ! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea's  profound  ! 

See,  safe  thro'  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief  ! 

The  peril,  see,  is  past,  80 

All  are  harboured  to  the  last, 

And  just  as  nerve"  Riel  hollas  "  Anchor  !  "  —  sure  as  fate 
Up  the  English  come,  too  late  ! 

VIII. 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance  90 

As  they  cannonade  away  ! 

'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee  !  " 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  countenance  ! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell  ! 


HERVE  RIEL. 

Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  !  " 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word. 

"Herve  Kiel!" 

As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more,  JOQ 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

DC. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
1  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Tho'  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 

'Faith  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  !  Ho 

Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  !  or  my  name  's  not  Damfreville." 

x. 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue : 
"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty  's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but  a  run? —     120 
Since  't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may  — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore  — 
Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle  Aurore  !  " 
That  he  asked  and  that  he  got,  —  nothing  more. 

XI. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost : 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 

On  a  single  fishing  smack,  130 

In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England  bore  the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  rlank  ! 


IN  A   BALCONY. 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Hervd  Kiel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
H6rve"  Riel,  accept  my  verse  ! 
In  my  verse,  Hervd  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honour  France,  love  thy  wife  the  Belle  Aurore !  140 


IN  A   BALCONY. 

CONSTANCE  and  NORBERT. 

Nor.  Now ! 

Con.  Not  now  ! 

Nor.  Give  me  them  again,  those  hands  — 

Put  them  upon  my  forehead,  how  it  throbs  ! 
Press  them  before  my  eyes,  the  fire  comes  through! 
You  cruelest,  you  dearest  in  the  world, 
Let  me  !     The  Queen  must  grant  whatever  I  ask  — 
How  can  I  gain  you  and  not  ask  the  Queen? 
There  she  stays  waiting  for  me,  here  stand  you ; 
Some  time  or  other  this  was  to  be  asked : 
Now  is  the  one  time  —  what  I  ask,  I  gain  : 
Let  me  ask  now,  Love  ! 

Con.  Do,  and  ruin  us  !  10 

Nor.   Let  it  be  now,  Love  !     All  my  soul  breaks  forth. 
How  I  do  love  you  !     Give  my  love  its  way ! 
A  man  can  have  but  one  life  and  one  death, 
One  heaven,  one  hell.     Let  me  fulfil  my  fate  — 
Grant  me  my  heaven  now!     Let  me  know  you  mine, 
Prove  you  mine,  write  my  name  upon  your  brow, 
Hold  you  and  have  you,  and  then  die  away, 
If  God  please,  with  completion  in  my  soul. 

Con.  I  am  not  yours  then?     How  content  this  man! 
I  am  not  his — -who  change  into  himself,  20 

Have  passed  into  his  heart  and  beat  its  beats, 
Who  give  my  hands  to  him,  my  eyes,  my  hair, 
Give  all  that  was  of  me  away  to  him  — 
So  well,  that  now,  my  spirit  turned  his  own, 
Takes  part  with  him  against  the  woman  here, 
Bids  him  not  stumble  at  so  mere  a  straw 
As  caring  that  the  world  be  cognizant 
How  he  loves  her  and  how  she  worships  him. 
You  have  this  woman,  not  as  yet  that  world. 
Go  on,  I  bid,  nor  stop  to  care  for  me  30 

By  saving  what  I  cease  to  care  about, 
The  courtly  name  and  pride  of  circumstance  — 


IN  A   BALCONY. 

The  name  you  '11  pick  up  and  be  cumbered  with 
Just  for  the  poor  parade's  sake,  nothing  more ; 
Just  that  the  world  may  slip  from  under  you  — 
Just  that  the  world  may  cry  "  So  much  for  him  — 
The  man  predestined  to  the  heap  of  crowns : 
There  goes  his  chance  of  winning  one,  at  least  !  " 

Nor.   The  world ! 

Con.  You  love  it !     Love  me  quite  as  well, 

And  see  if  I  shall  pray  for  this  in  vain !  40 

Why  must  you  ponder  what  it  knows  or  thinks  ? 

Nor.    You  pray  for  —  what,  in  vain  ? 

Con.  Oh  my  heart's  heart, 

How  I  do  love  you,  Norbert !     That  is  right : 
But  listen,  or  I  take  my  hands  away  ! 
You  say,  "  let  it  be  now :  "  you  would  go  now 
And  tell  the  Queen,  perhaps  six  steps  from  us, 
You  love  me  —  so  you  do,  thank  God  ! 

Nor.  Thank  God  ! 

Con.    Yes,  Norbert,  —  but  you  fain  would  tell  your  love, 
And,  what  succeeds  the  telling,  ask  of  her 
My  hand.     Now  take  this  rose  and  look  at  it,  50 

Listening  to  me.     You  are  the  minister, 
The  Queen's  first  favourite,  nor  without  a  cause. 
To-night  completes  your  wonderful  year's-work 
(This  palace-feast  is  held  to  celebrate) 
Made  memorable  by  her  life's  success, 
The  junction  of  two  crowns,  on  her  sole  head, 
Her  house  had  only  dreamed  of  anciently : 
That  this  mere  dream  is  grown  a  stable  truth, 
To-night's  feast  makes  authentic.     Whose  the  praise? 
Whose  genius,  patience,  energy,  achieved  60 

What  turned  the  many  heads  and  broke  the,  hearts? 
You  are  the  fate,  your  minute  's  in  the  heaven. 
Next  comes  the  Queen's  turn.     "  Name  your  own  reward  !  " 
With  leave  to  clench  the  past,  chain  the  to-come, 
Put  out  an  arm  ana  touch  and  take  the  sun 
And  fix  it  ever  full-faced  on  your  earth, 
Possess  yourself  supremely  of  her  life,  — 
You  choose  the  single  thing  she  will  not  grant ; 
Nay,  very  declaration  of  which  choice 

Will  turn  the  scale  and  neutralize  your  work :  70 

At  best  she  will  forgive  you,  if  she  can. 
You  think  I  '11  let  you  choose  —  her  cousin's  hand? 

Nor.   Wait.     First,  do  you  retain  your  old  belief 
The  Queen  is  generous,  —  nay,  is  just? 

Con.  There,  there  ! 

So  men  make  women  love  them,  while  they  know 
No  more  of  women's  hearts  than  .  .  .  lock  you  here, 


320 


IN  A  BALCONY. 

You  that  are  just  and  generous  beside, 

Make  it  your  own  case !     For  example  now, 

I  '11  say  —  I  let  you  kiss  me,  hold  my  hands  — 

Why?  do  you  know  why?     I  '11  instruct  you,  then —  80 

The  kiss,  because  you  have  a  name  at  court, 

This  hand  and  this,  that  you  may  shut  in  each 

A  jewel,  if  you  please  to  pick  up  such. 

That 's  horrible?     Apply  it  to  the  Queen  — 

Suppose  I  am  the  Queen  to  whom  you  speak. 

"  I  was  a  nameless  man  ;  you  needed  me  : 

Why  did  I  proffer  you  my  aid  ?  there  stood 

A  certain  pretty  cousin  at  your  side. 

Why  did  I  make  such  common  cause  with  -you? 

Access  to  her  had  not  been  easy  else.  90 

You  give  my  labour  here  abundant  praise  ? 

'Faith,  labour,  which  she  overlooked,  grew  play. 

How  shall  your  gratitude  discharge  itself? 

Give  me  her  hand!  " 

Nor.  And  still  I  urge  the  same. 

Is  the  Queen  just?  just  —  generous  or  no! 

Con.   Yes,  just.     You  love  a  rose ;  no  harm  in  that : 
But  was  it  for  the  rose's  sake  or  mine 
You  put  it  in  your  bosom?  mine,  you  said  — 
Then,  mine  you  still  must  say  or  else  be  false. 
You  told  the  Queen  you  served  her  for  herself;  loo 

If  so,  to  serve  her  was  to  serve  yourself. 
She  thinks,  for  all  your  unbelieving  face! 
I  know  her.     In  the  hall,  six  steps  from  us, 
One  sees  the  twenty  pictures  ;  there  's  a  life 
Better  than  life,  and  yet  no  life  at  all. 
Conceive  her  born  in  such  a  magic  dome, 
Pictures  all  round  her!  why,  she  sees  the  world, 
Can  recognize  its  given  things  and  facts, 
The  fight  of  giants  or  the  feast  of  gods, 

Sages  in  senate,  beauties  at  the  bath,  1 10 

Chases  and  battles,  the  whole  earth's  display, 
Landscape  and  sea-piece,  down  to  flowers  and  fruit — 
And  who  shall  question  that  she  knows  them  all, 
In  better  semblance  than  the  things  outside? 
Yet  bring  into  the  silent  gallery 
Some  live  thing  to  contrast  in  breath  and  blood, 
Some  lion,  with  the  painted  lion  there  — 
You  think  she  '11  understand  composedly? 
—  Say,  "  that 's  his  fellow  in  the  hunting-piece 
Yonder,  I  Ve  turned  to  praise  a  hundred  times?"  120 

Not  so.     Her  knowledge  of  our  actual  earth, 
Its  hopes  and  fears,  concerns  and  sympathies, 
Must  be  too  far,  too  mediate,  too  unreal. 


IN  A   BALCONY.  32I 

The  real  exists  for  us  outside,  not  her : 

How  should  it,  with  that  life  in  these  four  walls, 

That  father  and  that  mother,  first  to  last 

No  father  and  no  mother  —  friends,  a  heap, 

Lovers,  no  lack  — a  husband  in  due  time. 

And  every  one  of  them  alike  a  lie! 

Things  painted  by  a  Rubens  out  of  naught  130 

Into  what  kindness,  friendship,  love  should  be; 

All  better,  all  more  grandiose  than  the  life, 

Only  no  life ;  mere  cloth  and  surface-paint, 

You  feel,  while  you  admire.     How  should  she  feel? 

Yet  now  that  she  has  stood  thus  fifty  years 

The  sole  spectator  in  that  gallery, 

You  think  to  bring  this  warm  real  struggling  love 

In  to  her  of  a  sudden,  and  suppose 

She  '11  keep  her  state  untroubled?     Here  's  the  truth  : 

She  '11  apprehend  truth's  value  at  a  glance,  140 

Prefer  it  to  the  pictured  loyalty  ? 

You  only  have  to  say  "  So  men  are  made, 

For  this  they  act ;  the  thing  has  many  names, 

But  this  the  right  one  :  and  now.  Queen,  be  just! " 

Your  life  slips  back  ;  you  lose  her  at  the  word : 

You  do  not  even  for  amends  gain  me. 

He  will  not  understand!  oh,  Norbert,  Norbert, 

Do  you  not  understand? 

Nor.  The  Queen 's  the  Queen : 

I  am  myself —  no  picture,  but  alive 

In  every  nerve  and  every  muscle,  here  150 

At  the  palace-window  o'er  the  people's  street, 
As  she  in  the  gallery  where  the  pictures  glow : 
The  good  of  life  is  precious  to  us  both. 
She  can  not  love;  what  do  I  want  with  rule? 
When  first  I  saw  your  face  a  year  ago 
I  knew  my  life's  good,  my  soul  heard  one  voice  — 
"  The  woman  yonder,  there  's  no  use  of  life 
But  just  to  obtain  her!  heap  earth's  woes  in  one 
And  bear  them  —  make  a  pile  of  all  earth's  joys 
And  spurn  them,  as  they  help  or  help  not  this ;  160 

Only,  obtain  her!"  —  How  was  it  to  be? 
I  found  you  were  the  cousin  of  the  Queen ; 
I  must  then  serve  the  Queen  to  get  to  you. 
No  other  way.     Suppose  there  had  been  one, 
And  I,  by  saying  prayers  to  some  white  star 
With  promise  of  my  body  and  my  soul, 
Might  gain  you,  —  should  I  pray  the  star  or  no? 
Instead,  there  was  the  Queen  to  serve!  I  served, 
Helped,  did  what  other  servants  failed  to  do. 
Neither  she  sought  nor  I  declared  my  end.  170 


322  IN  A    BALCONY, 

Her  good  is  hers,  my  recompense  be  mine, 

I  therefore  name  you  as  that  recompense. 

She  dreamed  that  such  a  thing  could  never  be? 

Let  her  wake  now.     She  thinks  there  was  more  cause 

In  love  of  power,  high  fame,  pure  loyalty? 

Perhaps  she  fancies  men  wear  out  their  lives 

Chasing  such  shades.     Then,  I  've  a  fancy  too; 

I  worked  because  I  want  you  with  my  soul : 

I  therefore  ask  your  hand.     Let  it  be  now! 

Con.    Had  I  not  loved  you  from  the  very  first,  180 

Were  I  not  yours,  could  we  not  steal  out  thus 
So  wickedly,  so  wildly,  and  so  well. 
You  might  become  impatient.     What 's  conceived 
Of  us  without  here,  by  the  folks  within? 
Where  are  you  now?   immersed  in  cares  of  state  — 
Where  am  I  now  ?  —  intent  on  festal  robes  — 
We  two,  embracing  under  death's  spread  hand! 
What  was  this  thought  for,  what  that  scruple  of  yours 
Which  broke  the  council  up?  —  to  bring  about 

One  minute's  meeting  in  the  corridor!  190 

And  then  the  sudden  sleights,  strange  secrecies, 
Complots  inscrutable,  deep  telegraphs, 
Long-planned  chance-meetings,  hazards  of  a  look. 
"Does  she  know?  does  she  not  know?  saved  or  lost?  " 
A  year  of  this  compression's  ecstasy 
All  goes  for  nothing!  you  would  give  this  up 
For  the  old  way,  the  open  way,  the  world's, 
His  way  who  beats,  and  his  who  sells  his  wife! 
What  tempts  you?  —  their  notorious  happiness, 

Makes  you  ashamed  of  ours  ?     The  best  you  '11  gain  200 

Will  be  —  the  Queen  grants  all  that  you  require, 
Concedes  the  cousin,  rids  herself  of  you 
And  me  at  once,  and  gives  us  ample  leave 
To  live  like  our  five  hundred  happy  friends. 
The  world  will  show  us  with  officious  hand 
Our  chamber-entry  and  stand  sentinel, 
Where  we  so  oft  have  stolen  across  its  traps! 
Get  the  world's  warrant,  ring  the  falcon's  feet, 
And  make  it  duty  to  be  bold  and  swift, 

Which  long  ago  was  nature.     Have  it  so!  2IO 

We  never  hawked  by  rights  till  flung  from  fist? 
Oh,  the  man's  thought ;  no  woman  's  such  a  fool. 

Nor.   Yes,  the  man's  thought  and  my  thought,  which  is  more  — 
One  made  to  love  you,  let  the  world  take  note! 
Have  I  done  worthy  work?  be  love's  the  praise, 
Tho'  hampered  by  restrictions,  barred  against 
By  set  forms,  blinded  by  forced  secrecies ! 
Set  free  my  love,  and  see  what  love  can  do 


IN  A   BALCONY.  323 

Shown  in  my  life  — what  work  will  spring  from  that! 
The  world  is  used  to  have  its  business  done  220 

On  other  grounds,  find  great  effects  produced 
For  power's  sake,  fame's  sake,  motives  in  men's  mouth ! 
So,  good  :  but  let  my  low  ground  shame  their  high ! 
Truth  is  the  strong  thing.     Let  man's  life  be  true! 
And  love's  the  truth  of  mine.     Time  prove  the  rest! 
I  choose  to  wear  you  stamped  all  over  me. 
Your  name  upon  my  forehead  and  my  breast, 
You,  from  the  sword's  blade  to  the  ribbon's  edge, 
That  men  may  see,  all  over,  you  in  me  — 
That  pale  loves  may  die  out  of  their  pretence  230 

In  face  of  mine,  shames  thrown  on  love  fall  off. 
Permit  this,  Constance!     Love  has  been  so  long 
Subdued  in  me,  eating  me  through  and  through, 
That  now  't  is  all  of  me  and  must  have  way. 
Think  of  my  work,  that  chaos  of  intrigues, 
Those  hopes  and  fears,  surprises  and  delays, 
That  long  endeavour,  earnest,  patient,  slow, 
Trembling  at  last  to  its  assured  result  — 
Then  think  of  this  revulsion!     I  resume 

Life  after  death,  (it  is  no  less  than  life,  240 

After  such  long  unlovely  labouring  days) 
And  liberate  to  beauty  life's  great  need 
O'  the  beautiful,  which,  while  it  prompted  work, 
Suppressed  itself  erewhile.     This  eve  's  the  time, 
This  eve  intense  with  yon  first  trembling  star 
We  seem  to  pant  and  reach  ;  scarce  aught  between 
The  earth  that  rises  and  the  heaven  that  bends ; 
All  nature  self-abandoned,  every  tree 
Flung  as  it  will,  pursuing  its  own  thoughts 
And  fixed  so,  every  flower  and  every  weed,  250 

No  pride,  no  shame,  no  victory,  no  defeat ; 
AH  under  God,  each  measured  by  itself 
These  statues  round  us  stand  abrupt,  distinct, 
The  strong  in  strength,  the  weak  in  weakness  fixed, 
The  Muse  for  ever  wedded  to  her  lyre, 
Nymph  to  her  fawn,  and  Silence  to  her  rose : 
See  God's  approval  on  his  universe! 
Let  us  do  so  —  aspire  to  live  as  these 
In  harmony  with  truth,  ourselves  being  true! 
Take  the  first  way,  and  let  the  second  come!  26a 

My  first  is  to  possess  myself  of  you ; 
The  music  sets  the  march-step  —  forward,  then! 
And  there  's  the  Queen,  I  go  to  claim  you  of, 
The  world  to  witness,  wonder  and  applaud. 
Our  flower  of  life  breaks  open.     No  delay! 
Con.   And  so  shall  we  be  ruined,  both'of  us 


324 


IN  A  BALCONY. 

Norbert,  I  know  her  to  the  skin  and  bone : 

You  do  not  know  her,  were  not  born  to  it, 

To  feel  what  she  can  see  or  can  not  see. 

Love,  she  is  generous,  —  ay,  despite  your  smile,  270 

Generous  as  you  are :  for,  in  that  thin  frame 

Pain-twisted,  punctured  through  and  through  with  cares, 

There  lived  a  lavish  soul  until  it  starved 

Debarred  of  healthy  food.      Look  to  the  soul  — 

Pity  that,  stoop  to  that,  ere  you  begin 

(The  true  man's- way)  on  justice  and  your  rights, 

Exactions  and  acquittance  of  the  past ! 

Begin  so — see  what  justice  she  will  deal! 

We  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

Suppose  her  some  poor  keeper  of  a  school        .  280 

Whose  business  is  to  sit  thro'  summer  months 

And  dole  out  children  leave  to  go  and  play, 

Herself  superior  to  such  lightness  —  she 

In  the  arm-chair's  state  and  pedagogic  pomp, 

To  the  life,  the  laughter,  sun  and  youth  outside : 

We  wonder  such  a  face  looks  black  on  us  ? 

I  do  not  bid  you  wake  her  tenderness, 

(That  were  vain  truly  —  none  is  left  to  wake) 

But,  let  her  think  her  justice  is  engaged 

To  take  the  shape  of  tenderness,  and  mark  290 

If  she  '11  not  coldly  pay  its  warmest  debt! 

Does  she  love  me.  I  ask  you?   not  a  whit : 

Yet.  thinking  that  her  justice  was  engaged 

To  help  a  kinswoman,  she  took  me  up  — 

Did  more  on  that  bare  ground  than  other  loves 

Would  do  on  greater  argument.     For  me, 

I  have  no  equivalent  of  such  cold  kind 

To  pay  her  with,  but  love  alone  to  give 

If  I  give  anything.     I  give  her  love  : 

I  feel  I  ought  to  help  her,  and  I  will.  300 

So,  for  her  sake,  as  yours,  I  tell  you  twice 

That  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

If  I  were  you,  I  could  obtain  this  grace  — 

Could  lay  the  whole  I  did  to  love's  account 

Nor  yet  be  very  false  as  courtiers  go  — 

Declaring  my  success  was  recompense ; 

It  would  be  so,  in  fact :  what  were  it  else? 

And  then,  once  loose  her  generosity, — 

Oh,  how  I  see  it!  —  then,  were  I  but  you 

To  turn  it,  let  it  seem  to  move  itself,  310 

And  make  it  offer  what  I  really  take, 

Accepting  just,  in  the  poor  cousin's  hand, 

Her  value  as  the  next  thing  to  the  Queen's  — 

Since  none  love  Queens  directly,  none  dare  that. 


/A'  A  BALCONY.  325 

And  a  thing's  shadow  or  a  name's  mere  echo 
Suffices  those  who  miss  the  name  and  thing! 
You  pick  up  just  a  ribbon  she  has  worn, 
To  keep  in  proof  how  near  her  breath  you  came. 
Say,  I  1m  so  near  I  seem  a  piece  of  her  — 

Ask  for  me  that  way  —  (oh,  you  understand)  320 

You  'd  find  the  same  gift  yielded  with  a  grace, 
Which,  if  you  make  the  least  show  to  extort  .  .  . 
—  You  '11  see !  and  when  you  have  ruined  both  of  us, 
Dissertate  on  the  Queen's  ingratitude! 

Nor.    Then,  if  I  turn  it  that  way,  you  consent  ? 
'T  is  not  my  way  ;  I  have  more  hope  in  truth  : 
Still,  if  you  won't  have  truth  —  why,  this  indeed, 
Were  scarcely  false,  as  I  'd  express  the  sense. 
Will  you  remain  here? 

Con.  O  best  heart  of  mine, 

How  I  have  loved  you!  then,  you  take  my  way?  330 

Are  mine  as  you  have  been  her  minister, 
Work  out  my  thought,  give  it  effect  for  me, 
Paint  plain  my  poor  conceit  and  make  it  serve? 
I  owe  that  withered  woman  everything  — 
Life,  fortune,  you,  remember!     Take  my  part  — 
Help  me  to  pay  her!     Stand  upon  your  rights? 
You,  with  my  rose,  my  hands,  my  heart  on  you? 
Your  rights  are  mine  —  you  have  no  rights  but  mine. 

Nor.   Remain  here.     How  you  know  me! 

Con.  Ah,  but  still 

[He  breaks  from  her:  she  remains.     Dance-music  from 
within. 

Enter  the  QUEEN. 

Queen.   Constance?     She  is  here  as  he  said.     Speak  quick.'   340 
Is  it  so  i    Is  it  true  or  false  ?    One  word ! 

Con.   True. 

Queen.  Mercifullest  Mother,  thanks  to  thee! 

Con.   Madam? 

Queen.  I  love  you,  Constance,  from  my  soul. 

Now  say  once  more,  with  any  words  you  will, 
'Tis  true,  all  true,  as  true  as  that  I  speak. 

Con.   Why  should  you  doubt  it? 

Queen.  Ah,  why  doubt?  why  doubt? 

Dear,  make  me  see  it!     Do  you  see  it  so? 
None  see  themselves  ;  another  sees  them  best. 
You  say  "why  doubt  it?"  —  you  see  him  and  me. 
It  is  because  the  Mother  has  such  grace  350 

That  if  we  had  but  faith  —  wherein  we  fail  — 
Whate'er  we  yearn  for  would  be  granted  us ; 


326  IN  A  BALCONY. 

Yet  still  we  let  our  whims  prescribe  despair, 
Our  fancies  thwart  and  cramp  our  will  and  power, 
And  while  accepting  life,  abjure  its  use. 
Constance,  I  had  abjured  the  hope  of  love 
And  being  loved,  as  truly  as  yon  palm 
The  hope  of  seeing  Egypt  from  that  plot. 

Con.    Heaven! 

Queen.  But  it  was  so,  Constance,  it  was  so! 

Men  say  —  or  do  men  say  it?  fancies  say —  360 

"  Stop  here,  your  life  is  set,  you  are  grown  old. 
Too  late  —  no  love  for  you,  too  late  for  love  — 
Leave  love  to  girls.     Be  queen  :  let  Constance  love!" 
One  takes  the  hint  —  half  meets  it  like  a  child, 
Ashamed  at  any  feelings  that  oppose. 
"  Oh  love,  true,  never  think  of  love  again! 
I  am  a  queen :  I  rule,  not  love  forsooth." 
So  it  goes  on  ;  so  a  face  grows  like  this, 
Hair  like  this  hair,  poor  arms  as  lean  as  these, 
Till,  —  nay,  it  does  not  end  so,  I  thank  God!  370 

Con.    I  can  not  understand  — 

Queen.  The  happier  you! 

Constance,  I  know  not  how  it  is  with  men : 
For  women  (I  am  a  woman  now  like  you) 
There  is  no  good  of  life  but  love  —  but  love ! 
What  else  looks  good,  is  some  shade  flung  from  love ; 
Love  gilds  it,  gives  it  worth.     Be  warned  by  me, 
Never  you  cheat  yourself  one  instant!     Love, 
Give  love,  ask  only  love,  and  leave  the  rest! 

0  Constance,  how  I  love  you ! 

Con.  I  love  you. 

Queen.  I  do  believe  that  all  is  come  thro'  you.  380 

1  took  you  to  my  heart  to  keep  it  warm 

When  the  last  chance  of  love  seemed  dead  in  me  ; 
I  thought  your  fresh  youth  warmed  my  withered  heart. 
Oh,  I  am  very  old  now,  am  I  not? 
Not  so!  it  is  true  and  it  shall  be  true! 

Con.   Tell  it  me  :  let  me  judge  if  true  or  false. 

Queen.   Ah,  but  I  fear  you!  you  will  look  at  me 
And  say,  "  she  's  old,  she  's  grown  unlovely  quite 
Who  ne'er  was  beauteous :  men  want  beauty  still." 
Well,  so  I  feared  —  the  curse!  so  I  felt  sure.  390 

Con.    Be  calm.     And  now  you  feel  not  sure,  you  say? 

Queen.   Constance,  he  came,  —  the  coming  was  not  strange  — 
Do  not  I  stand  and  see  men  come  and  go? 
I  turned  a  half-look  from  my  pedestal 
Where  I  grow  marble —  "  one  young  man  the  more! 
He  will  love  some  one ;  that  is  naught  to  me : 
What  would  he  with  my  marble  stateliness  ? " 


IN  A   BALCONY. 

Yet  this  seemed  somewhat  worse  than  heretofore ; 

The  man  more  gracious,  youthful,  like  a  god, 

And  I  still  older,  with  less  flesh  to  change  —  400 

We  two  those  dear  extremes  that  long  to  touch. 

It  seemed  still  harder  when  he  first  began 

To  labour  at  those  state-affairs,  absorbed 

The  old  way  for  the  old  end  —  interest. 

Oh,  to  live  with  a  thousand  beating  hearts 

Around  you,  swift  eyes,  serviceable  hands, 

Professing  they  've  no  care  but  for  your  cause, 

Thought  but  to  help  you,  love  but  for  yourself, 

And  you  the  marble  statue  all  the  time 

They  praise  and  point  at  as  preferred  to  life,  410 

Yet  leave  for  the  first  breathing  woman's  smile, 

First  dancers,  gipsy's  or  street  baladine's ! 

Why,  how  I  have  ground  my  teeth  to  hear  men's  speech 

Stifled  for  fear  it  should  alarm  my  ear, 

Their  gait  subdued  lest  step  should  startle  me, 

Their  eyes  declined,  such  queendom  to  respect, 

Their  hands  alert,  such  treasure  to  preserve, 

While  not  a  man  of  them  broke  rank  and  spoke, 

Wrote  me  a  vulgar  letter  all  of  love, 

Or  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  it  like  a  hand!  420 

There  have  been  moments,  if  the  sentinel 

Lowering  his  halbert  to  salute  the  queen, 

Had  flung  it  brutally  and  clasped  my  knees, 

I  would  have  stooped  and  kissed  him  with  my  soul. 

Con.   Who  could  have  comprehended  ? 

Queen.  Ay,  who  —  who? 

Why,  no  one,  Constance,  but  this  one  who  did. 
Not  they,  not  you,  not  I.     Even  now  perhaps 
It  comes  too  late  —  would  you  but  tell  the  truth. 

Con.    I  wait  to  tell  it. 

Queen.  Well,  you  see,  he  came, 

Outfaced  the  others,  did  a  work  this  year  430 

Exceeds  in  value  all  was  ever  done, 
You  know  —  it  is  not  I  who  say  it  —  all 
Say  it.     And  so  (a  second  pang  and  worse) 
I  grew  aware  not  only  of  what  he  did, 
But  why  so  wondrously.     Oh,  never  work 
Like  his  was  done  for  work's  ignoble  sake  — 
Souls  need  a  finer  aim  to  light  and  lure! 
I  felt,  I  saw,  he  loved  —  loved  somebody. 
And  Constance,  my  dear  Constance,  do  you  know, 
I  did  believe  this  while  't  was  you  he  loved.  440 

Con.    Me,  madam? 

Queen.  It  did  seem  to  me,  your  face 

Met  him  where'er  he  looked :  and  whom  but  you 


328  SJV  A  BALCONY. 

Was  such  a  man  to  love  ?     It  seemed  to  me, 

You  saw  he  loved  you,  and  approved  his  love, 

And  both  of  you  were  in  intelligence. 

You  could  not  loiter  in  that  garden,  step 

Into  this  balcony,  but  I  straight  was  stung 

And  forced  to  understand.     It  seemed  so  true, 

So  right,  so  beautiful,  so  like  you  both, 

That  all  this  work  should  have  been  done  by  him  450 

Not  for  the  vulgar  hope  of  recompense, 

But  that  at  last  —  suppose,  some  night  like  this  — 

Borne  on  to  claim  his  due  reward  of  me, 

He  might  say,  "  Give  her  hand  and  pay  me  so." 

And  I  (O  Constance,  you  shall  love  me  now!) 

I  thought,  surmounting  all  the  bitterness, 

—  "  And  he  shall  have  it.     I  will  make  her  blest, 

My  flower  of  youth,  my  woman's  self  that  was, 

My  happiest  woman's  self  that  might  have  been! 

These  two  shall  have  their  joy  and  leave  me  here."  460 

Yes  —  yes ! 

Con.  Thanks! 

Queen.  And  the  word  was  on  my  lips 

When  he  burst  in  upon  me.     I  looked  to  hear 
A  mere  calm  statement  of  his  just  desire 
For  payment  of  his  labour.     When  —  O  heaven, 
How  can  I  tell  you?  lightning  on  my  eyes 
And  thunder  in  my  ears  proved  that  first  word 
Which  told 't  was  love  of  me,  of  me,  did  all  — 
He  loved  me  —  from  the  first  step  to  the  last, 
Loved  me! 

Con.  You  hardly  saw,  scarce  heard  him  speak 

Of  love  :  what  if  you  should  mistake  ? 

Queen.  No,  no —  470 

No  mistake!     Ha,  there  shall  be  no  mistake! 
He  had  not  dared  to  hint  the  love  he  felt  — 
You  were  my  reflex  —  (how  I  understood !) 
He  said  you  were  the  ribbon  I  had  worn, 
He  kissed  my  hand,  he  looked  into  my  eyes, 
And  love,  love  came  at  end  of  every  phrase. 
Love  is  begun  ;  this  much  is  come  to  pass : 
The  rest  is  easy.     Constance,  I  am  yours! 
I  will  learn,  I  will  place  my  life  on  you, 

Teach  me  but  how  to  keep  what  I  have  won!  480 

Am  I  so  old  ?     This  hair  was  early  gray  ; 
But  joy  ere  now  has  brought  hair  brown  again, 
And  joy  will  bring  the  cheek's  red  back,  I  feel. 
I  could  sing  once  too  ;  that  was  in  my  youth. 
Still,  when  men  paint  me,  they  declare  me  .  .  .  yes, 
Beautiful  —  for  the  last  French  painter  did ! 


IN  A  BALCONY. 

I  know  they  flatter  somewhat ;  you  are  frank  — 

I  trust  you.     How  I  loved  you  from  the  first ! 

Some  queens  would  hardly  seek  a  cousin  out 

And  set  her  by  their  side  to  take  the  eye  :  400 

I  must  have  felt  that  good  would  come'  from  you. 

I  am  not  generous  —  like  him  —  like  you! 

But  he  is  not  your  lover  after  all : 

It  was  not  you  he  looked  at.     Saw  you  him? 

You  have  not  been  mistaking  words  or  looks  ? 

He  said  you  were  the  reflex  of  myself. 

And  yet  he  is  not  such  a  paragon 

To  you,  to  younger  women  who  may  choose 

Among  a  thousand  Norberts.     Speak  the  truth! 

You  know  you  never  named  his  name  to  me  —  500 

You  know,  I  can  not  give  him  up  —  ah  God, 

Not  up  now,  even  to  you! 

Con.  Then  calm  yourself. 

Queen.   See,  I  am  old  —  look  here,  you  happy  girl! 

I  will  not  play  the  fool,  deceive  —  ah  whom? 

'T  is  all  gone  :  put  your  cheek  beside  my  cheek 
And,  what  a  contrast  does  the  moon  behold! 

But  then  I  set  my  life  upon  one  chance, 

The  last  chance  and  the  best  —  am  /  not  left, 

My  soul,  myself  ?     All  women  love  great  men 

If  young  or  old ;  it  is  in  all  the  tales  :  510 

Young  beauties  love  old  poets  who  can  love  — 

Why  should  not  he,  the  poems  in  my  soul, 

The  passionate  faith,  the  pride  of  sacrifice, 

Life-long,  death-long?     I  throw  them  at  his  feet. 

Who  cares  to  see  the  fountain's  very  shape, 

And  whether  it  be  a  Triton's  or  a  Nymph's 

That  pours  the  foam,  makes  rainbows  all  around? 

You  could  not  praise  indeed  the  empty  conch  ; 

But  I  '11  pour  floods  of  love  and  hide  myself. 

How  I  will  love  him!     Can  not  men  love  love?  520 

Who  was  a  queen  and  loved  a  poet  once 

Humpbacked,  a  dwarf?  ah,  women  can  do  that! 

Well,  but  men  too  ;  at  least,  they  tell  you  so. 

They  love  so  many  women  in  their  youth, 

And  even  in  age  they  all  love  whom  they  please; 

And  yet  the  best  of  them  confide  to  friends 

That 't  is  not  beauty  makes  the  lasting  love  — 

They  spend  a  day  with  such  and  tire  the  next : 

They  like  soul,  —  well  then,  they  like  phantasy, 

Novelty  even.     Let  us  confess  the  truth,  530 

Horrible  tho'  it  be,  that  prejudice. 

Prescription  .  .  .  curses !  they  will  love  a  queen 

They  will,  they  do  :  and  will  not,  does  not  —  he  ? 


330 


IN  A  BALCONY. 

Con.    How  can  he?     You  are  wedded  ;  't  is  a  name 
We  know,  but  still  a  bond.     Your  rank  remains, 
His  rank  remains.     How  can  he,  nobly  souled 
As  you  believe  and  I  incline  to  think, 
Aspire  to  be  your  favourite,  shame  and  all  ? 

Queen.    Hear  her!     There,  there  now  —  could  she  love  like  me? 
What  did  I  say  of  smooth-cheeked  youth  and  grace?  540 

See  all  it  does  or  could  do!  so,  youth  loves! 
Oh,  tell  him,  Constance,  you  could  never  do 
What  I  will  —  you,  it  was  not  born  in!  I 
Will  drive  these  difficulties  far  and  fast 
As  yonder  mists  curdling  before  the  moon. 
I  '11  use  my  light  too,  gloriously  retrieve 
My  youth  from  its  enforced  calamity. 
Dissolve  that  hateful  marriage,  and  be  his, 
His  own  in  the  eyes  alike  of  God  and  man. 

Con.    You  will  do  —  dare  do  .  .  .  pause  on  what  you  say!     550 

Queen.    Hear  her!  I  thank  you,  sweet,  for  that  surprise. 
You  have  the  fair  face :  for  the  soul,  see  mine ! 
I  have  the  strong  soul :  let  me  teach  you,  here. 
I  think  I  have  borne  enough  and  long  enough, 
And  patiently  enough,  the  world  remarks, 
To  have  my  own  way  now,  unblamed  by  all. 
It  does  so  happen  (I  rejoice  for  it) 
This  most  unhoped-for  issue  cuts  the  knot. 
There  's  not  a  better  way  of  settling  claims 

Than  this  :  God  sends  the  accident  express :  560 

And  were  it  for  my  subjects'  good,  no  more, 
'T  were  best  thus  ordered.     1  am  thankful  now, 
Mute,  passive,  acquiescent.     I  receive, 
And  bless  God  simply,  or  should  almost  fear 
To  walk  so  smoothly  to  my  ends  at  last. 
Why,  how  I  baffle  obstacles,  spurn  fate! 
How  strong  I  am!     Could  Norbert  see  me  now! 

Con.    Let  me  consider!     It  is  all  too  strange. 

Queen.   You,  Constance,  learn  of  me;  do  you,  like  me! 
You  are  young,  beautiful :  my  own,  best  girl,  570 

You  will  have  many  lovers,  and  love  one  — 
Light  hair,  not  hair  like  Norbert's,  to  suit  yours, 
Taller  than  he  is,  since  yourself  are  tall. 
Love  him,  like  me!     Give  all  away  to  him; 
Think  never  of  yourself;  throw  by  your  pride, 
Hope,  fear,  —  your  own  good  as  you  saw  it  once, 
And  love  him  simply  for  his  very  self. 
Remember,  I  (and  what  am  I  to  you  ?) 
Would  give  up  all  for  one,  leave  throne,  lose  life, 
Do  all  but  just  unlove  him!     He  loves  me.  ($c 

Con.    He  shall. 


IN  A    BALCONY. 


331 


Queen.  You,  step  inside  my  inmost  heart! 

Give  me  your  own  heart :  let  us  have  one  heart! 
I  '11  come  to  you  for  counsel ;  "  this  he  says, 
This  he  does ;  what  should  this  amount  to,  pray? 
Beseech  you,  change  it  into  current  coin! 
Is  that  worth  kisses?     Shall  I  please  him  there?" 
And  then  we  '11  speak  in  turn  of  you  —  what  else  ? 
Your  love,  according  to  your  beauty's  worth, 
For  you  shall  have  some  noble  love,  all  gold : 
Whom  choose  you?  we  will  get  him  at  your  choice.  590 

—  Constance,  I  leave  you.     Just  a  minute  since, 
I  felt  as  I  must  die  or  be  alone 
Breathing  my  soul  into  an  ear  like  yours : 
Now,  I  would  face  the  world  with  my  new  life, 
Wear  my  new  crown.     I  '11  walk  around  the  rooms, 
And  then  come  back  and  tell  you  how  it  feels. 
How  soon  a  smile  of  God  can  change  the  world! 
How  we  are  made  for  happiness  —  how  work 
Grows  play,  adversity  a  winning  fight! 

True  I  have  lost  so  many  years :  what  then?  600 

Many  remain :  God  has  been  very  good. 
You,  stay  here !     'T  is  as  different  from  dreams, 
From  the  mind's  cold  calm  estimate  of  bliss, 
As  these  stone  statues  from  the  flesh  and  blood. 
The  comfort  thou  hast  caused  mankind,  God's  moon! 

[She  goes  out,  leaving  CONSTANCE.    Dance-music  front 
within. 

NORBERT  enters. 

Nor.  Well?  we  have  but  one  minute  and  one  word! 

Con.    I  am  yours,  Norbert! 

Nor.  Yes,  mine. 

Con.  Not  till  now! 

You  were  mine.     Now  I  give  myself  to  you. 

Nor.   Constance  ? 

Con.  Your  own!     I  know  the  thriftier  way 

Of  giving  —  haply,  't  is  the  wiser  way  610 

Meaning  to  give  a  treasure,  I  might  dole 
Coin  after  coin  out  (each,  as  that  were  all, 
With  a  new  largess  still  at  each  despair) 
And  force  you  keep  in  sight  the  deed,  preserve 
Exhaustless  till  the  end  my  part  and  yours, 
My  giving  and  your  taking ;  both  our  joys 
Dying  together'     Is  it  the  wiser  way? 
I  choose  the  simpler ;  I  give  all  at  once. 
Know  what  you  have  to  trust  to,  trade  upon! 
Use  it,  abuse  it,  —  anything  but  think  620 


332 


IN  A   BALCONY. 

Hereafter,  "  Had  I  known  she  loved  me  so, 

And  what  my  means,  I  might  have  thriven  with  it." 

This  is  your  means.     I  give  you  all  myself. 

Nor.   I  take  you  and  thank  God. 

Con.  Look  on  thro'  years! 

We  can  not  kiss,  a  second  day  like  this  ; 
Else  were  this  earth  no  earth. 

Nor.  With  this  day's  heat 

We  shall  go  on  thro'  years  of  cold. 

Con.  So,  best! 

—  I  try  to  see  those  years  —  I  think  I  see. 
You  walk  quick  and  new  warmth  comes  ;  you  look  back 
And  lay  all  to  the  first  glow — not  sit  down  630 

For  ever  brooding  on  a  day  like  this 
While  seeing  embers  whiten  and  love  die. 
Yes,  love  lives  best  in  its  effect ;  and  mine, 
Full  in  its  own  life,  yearns  to  live  in  yours. 

Nor.   Just  so.     I  take  and  know  you  all  at  once. 
Your  soul  is  disengaged  so  easily, 
Your  face  is  there,  I  know  you ;  give  me  time, 
Let  me  be  proud  and  think  you  shall  know  me. 
My  soul  is  slower:  in  a  life  I  roll 

The  minute  out  whereto  you  condense  yours —  640 

The  whole  slow  circle  round  you  I  must  move, 
To  be  just  you.     I  look  to  a  long  life 
To  decompose  this  minute,  prove  its  worth. 
'T  is  the  sparks'  long  succession  one  by  one 
Shall  show  you,  in  the  end,  what  fire  was  crammed 
In  that  mere  stone  you  struck :  how  could  you  know, 
If  it  lay  ever  unproved  in  your  sight, 
As  now  my  heart  lies?  your  own  warmth  would  hide 
Its  coldness,  were  it  cold. 

Con.  But  how  prove,  how? 

Nor.    Prove  in  my  life,  you  ask? 

Con.  Quick,  Norbert  —  how?     650 

Nor.    That 's  easy  told.     I  count  life  just  a  stuff 
To  try  the  soul's  strength  on,  educe  the  man. 
Who  keeps  one  end  in  view  makes  all  things  serve. 
As  with  the  body  —  he  who  hurls  a  lance 
Or  heaps  up  stone  on  stone,  shows  strength  alike, 
So  must  I  seize  and  task  all  means  to  prove 
And  show  this  soul  of  mine,  you  crown  as  yours, 
And  justify  us  both. 

Con.  Could  you  write  books, 

Paint  pictures!     One  sits  down  in  poverty 
And  writes  or  paints,  with  pity  for  the  rich.  660 

Nor.   And  loves  one's  painting,  and  one's  writing,  then, 
And  not  one's  mistress!     All  is  best,  believe 


IN  A   BALCONY. 

And  we  best  as  no  other  than  we  are. 

We  live,  and  they  experiment  on  life  — 

Those  poets,  painters,  all  who  stand  aloof 

To  overlook  the  farther.     Let  us  be 

The  thing  they  look  at!     I  might  take  your  face 

And  write  of  it  and  paint  it  —  to  what  end? 

For  whom  ?  what  pale  dictatress  in  the  air 

Feeds,  smiling  sadly,  her  fine  ghost-like  form  670 

With  earth's  real  blood  and  breath,  the  beauteous  life 

She  makes  despised  for  ever?     You  are  mine, 

Made  for  me,  not  for  others  in  the  world, 

Nor  yet  for  that  which  I  should  call  my  art, 

The  cold  calm  power  to  see  how  fair  you  look. 

I  come  to  you ;  I  leave  you  not,  to  write 

Or  paint.     You  are,  I  am  :  let  Rubens  there 

Paint  us! 

Con.        So,  best! 

Nor.  I  understand  your  soul. 

You  live,  and  rightly  sympathize  with  life, 
With  action,  power,  success.     This  way  is  straight ;  680 

And  time  were  short  beside,  to  let  me  change 
The  craft  my  childhood  learnt :  my  craft  shall  serve. 
Men  set  me  here  to  subjugate,  enclose, 
Manure  their  barren  lives,  and  force  thence  fruit 
First  for  themselves,  and  afterward  for  me 
In  the  due  tithe  ;  the  task  of  some  one  soul, 
Thro'  ways  of  work  appointed  by  the  world. 
I  am  not  bid  create  —  men  see  no  star 
Transfiguring  my  brow  to  warrant  that  — 
But  find  and  bind  and  bring  to  bear  their  wills.  690 

So  I  began :  to-night  sees  how  I  end. 
What  if  it  see,  too,  power's  first  outbreak  here 
Amid  the  warmth,  surprise  and  sympathy, 
And  instincts  of  the  heart  that  teach  the  head? 
What  if  the  people  have  discerned  at  length 
The  dawn  of  the  next  nature,  novel  brain 
Whose  will  they  venture  in  the  place  of  theirs, 
Whose  work,  they  trust,  shall  find  them  as  novel  ways 
To  untried  heights  which  yet  he  only  sees  ? 
I  felt  it  when  you  kissed  me.     See  this  Queen,  700 

This  people  —  in  our  phrase,  this  mass  of  men, 
See  how  the  mass  lies  passive  to  my  hand 
Now  that  my  hand  is  plastic,  with  you  by 
To  make  the  muscles  iron!     Oh,  an  end 
Shall  crown  this  issue  as  this  crowns  the  first! 
My  will  be  on  this  people!  then,  the  strain, 
The  grappling  of  the  potter  with  his  clay, 
The  long  uncertain  struggle,  —  the  success 


334  IN  A    BALCONY. 

And  consummation  of  the  spirit-work, 

Some  vase  shaped  to  the  curl  of  the  god's  lip,  710 

While  rounded  fair  for  human  sense  to  see 

The  Graces  in  a  dance  men  recognize 

With  turbulent  applause  and  laughs  of  heart! 

So  triumph  ever  shall  renew  itself; 

Ever  shall  end  in  efforts  higher  yet, 

Ever  begin  .  .  . 

Con.  I  ever  helping? 

Nor.  Thus! 

\_As  he  embraces  her,  the  QUEEN  enters. 

Con.    Hist,  madam!    So  have  I  performed  my  part. 
You  see  your  gratitude's  true  decency, 
Norbert?     A  little  slow  in  seeing  it! 
Begin,  to  end  the  sooner!     What's  a  kiss?  720 

Nor.   Constance  ? 

Con.  Why,  must  I  teach  it  you  again? 

You  want  a  witness  to  your  dulness,  sir? 
What  was  I  saying  these  ten  minutes  long? 
Then  I  repeat  —  when  some  young  handsome  man 
Like  you  has  acted  out  a  part  like  yours, 
Is  pleased  to  fall  in  love  with  one  beyond, 
So  very  far  beyond  him,  as  he  says  — 
So  hopelessly  in  love  that  but  to  speak 
Would  prove  him  mad,  —  he  thinks  judiciously, 
And  makes  some  insignificant  good  soul,  730 

Like  me,  his  friend,  adviser,  confidant, 
And  very  stalking-horse  to  cover  him 
In  following  after  what  he  dares  not  face  — 
When  his  end  's  gained —  (sir,  do  you  understand?) 
When  she,  he  dares  not  face,  has  loved  him  first, 
—  May  I  not  say  so,  madam  ?  —  tops  his  hope, 
And  overpasses  so  his  wildest  dream. 
With  glad  consent  of  all,  and  most  of  her 
The  confidant  who  brought  the  same  about  — 
Why,  in  the  moment  when  such  joy  explodes,  740 

I  do  hold  that  the  merest  gentleman 
Will  not  start  rudely  from  the  stalking-horse, 
Dismiss  it  with  a  "  There,  enough  of  you!  " 
Forget  it,  show  his  back  unmannerly : 
But  like  a  liberal  heart  will  rather  turn 
And  say,  "  A  tingling  time  of  hope  was  ours ; 
Betwixt  the  fears  and  falterings,  we  two  lived 
A  chanceful  time  in  waiting  for  the  prize  : 
The  confidant,  the  Constance,  served  not  ill. 
And  tho'  I  shall  forget  her  in  due  time,  750 

Her  use  being  answered  now,  as  reason  bids, 
Nay  as  herself  bids  from  her  heart  of  hearts,  — 


IN1  A   BALCONY.  -.- 

Still,  she  has  rights,  the  first  thanks  go  to  her, 
The  first  good  praise  goes  to  the  prosperous  tool, 
And  the  first  — which  is  the  last—  rewarding  kiss." 

Nor.    Constance,  it  is  a  dream—  ah,  see,  you  smile! 

Con.    So,  now  his  part  being  properly  performed, 
Madam,  I  turn  to  you  and  finish  mine 
As  duly ;  I  do  justice  in  my  turn. 

Yes,  madam,  he  has  loved  you  —  long  and  well ;  760 

He  could  not  hope  to  tell  you  so  —  't  was  I 
Who  served  to  prove  your  soul  accessible, 
I  led  his  thoughts  on,  drew  them  to  their  place 
When  they  had  wandered  else  into  despair, 
And  kept  love  constant  toward  its  natural  aim. 
Enough,  my  part  is  played  ;  you  stoop  half-way 
And  meet  us  royally  and  spare  our  fears  : 
'T  is  like  yourself.     He  thanks  you,  so  do  I. 
Take  him  —  with  my  full  heart!  my  work  is  praised 
By  what  comes  of  it.     Be  you  happy,  both  I  770 

Yourself —  the  only  one  on  earth  who  can  — 
Do  all  for  him,  much  more  than  a  mere  heart 
Which  tho'  warm  is  not  useful  in  its  warmth 
As  the  silk  vesture  of  a  queen !  fold  that 
Around  him  gently,  tenderly.     For  him  — 
For  him,  —  he  knows  his  own  part ! 

Nor.  Have  you  done  ? 

I  take  the  jest  at  last.     Should  I  speak  now? 
Was  yours  the  wager,  Constance,  foolish  child, 
Or  did  you  but  accept  it  ?    Well  —  at  least 
You  lose  by  it. 

Con.  Nay,  madam,  't  is  your  turn!  780 

Restrain  him  still  from  speech  a  little  more, 
And  make  him  happier  as  more  confident! 
Pity  him,  madam,  he  is  timid  yet! 
Mark,  Norbert!     Do  not  shrink  now!     Here  I  yield 
My  whole  right  in  you  to  the  Queen,  observe! 
With  her  go  put  in  practice  the  great  schemes 
You  teem  with,  follow  the  career  else  closed  — 
Be  all  you  can  not  be  except  by  her! 
Behold  her!  —  Madam,  say  for  pity's  sake 

Anything  —  frankly  say  you  love  him!     Else  790 

He  '11  not  believe  it :  there 's  more  earnest  in 
His  fear  than  you  conceive  :  I  know  the  man ! 

Nor.   1  know  the  woman  somewhat,  and  confess 
I  thought  she  had  jested  better  :  she  begins 
To  overcharge  her  part.     I  gravely  wait 
Your  pleasure,  madam  :  where  is  my  reward  ? 

Queen.    Norbert.  this  wild  girl  (whom  I  recognize 
Scarce  more  than  you  do,  in  her  fancy-fit, 


336  IN  A    BALCONY. 

Eccentric  speech  and  variable  mirth, 

Not  very  wise  perhaps  and   somewhat  bold,  800 

Yet  suitable,  the  whole  night's  work  being  strange) 

—  May  still  be  right :  I  may  do  well  to  speak 

And  make  authentic  what  appears  a  dream 

To  even  myself.     For,  what  she  says,  is  true. 

Yes,  Norbert  —  what  you  spoke  just  now  of  love, 

Devotion,  stirred  no  novel  sense  in  me, 

But  justified  a  warmth  felt  long  before. 

Yes,  from  the  first  —  I  loved  you,  I  shall  say : 

Strange!  but  I  do  grow  stronger,  now  'tis  said. 

Your  courage  helps  mine  :  you  did  well  to  speak  810 

To-night,  the  night  that  crowns  your  twelvemonths'  toil : 

But  still  I  had  not  waited  to  discern 

Your  heart  so  long,  believe  me!     From  the  first 

The  source  of  so  much  zeal  was  almost  plain, 

In  absence  even  of  your  own  words  just  now 

Which  hazarded  the  truth.     'T  is  very  strange, 

But  takes  a  happy  ending  —  in  your  love 

Which  mine  meets  :  be  it  so!  as  you  chose  me, 

So  I  choose  you. 

Nor.  And  worthily  you  choose. 

I  will  not  be  unworthy  your  esteem,  820 

No,  madam.     I  do  love  you ;  I  will  meet 
Your  nature,  now  I  know  it.     This  was  well. 
I  see,  —  you  dare  and  you  are  justified  : 
But  none  had  ventured  such  experiment, 
Less  versed  than  you  in  nobleness  of  heart, 
Less  confident  of  finding  such  in  me. 
I  joy  that  thus  you  test  me  ere  you  grant 
The  dearest  richest  beauteousest  and  best 
Of  women  to  my  arms  :  't  is  like  yourself. 
So  —  back  again  into  my  part's  set  words —  830 

Devotion  to  the  uttermost  is  yours. 
But  no,  you  can  not,  madam,  even  you, 
Create  in  me  the  love  our  Constance  does. 
Or  —  something  truer  to  the  tragic  phrase  — 
Not  yon  magnolia-bell  superb  with  scent 
Invites  a  certain  insect  —  that  's  myself — 
But  the  small  eye-flower  nearer  to  the  ground. 
I  take  this  lady. 

Con.  Stay  —  not  hers,  the  trap  — 

Stay,  Norbert  —  that  mistake  were  worst  of  all! 
He  is  too  cunning,  madam!     It  was  I,  840 

I,  Norbert,  who  .  .  . 

Nor.  You,  was  it,  Constance?     Then, 

But  for  the  grace  of  this  divinest  hour 
Which  gives  me  you,  I  might  not  pardon  here! 


IN  A  BALCONY. 


337 


I  am  the  Queen's ;  she  only  knows  my  brain : 

She  may  experiment  upon  my  heart 

And  I  instruct  her  too  by  the  result. 

But  you.  Sweet,  you  who  know  me,  who  so  long 

Have  told  my  heart-beats  over,  held  my  life 

In  those  white  hands  of  yours,  —  it  is  not  well! 

Con.     Tush!  I  have  said  it,  did  I  not  say  it  all?  850 

The  life,  for  her  —  the  heart-beats,  for  her  sake! 

Nor.     Enough!  my  cheek  grows  red,  I  think.     Your  test? 
There  's  not  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world. 
Not  she  I  least  could  love  in  all  the  world, 
Whom,  did  she  love  me,  had  love  proved  itself, 
I  dare  insult  as  you  insult  me  now. 
Constance,  I  could  say,  if  it  must  be  said, 
"  Take  back  the  soul  you  offer,  I  keep  mine!" 
But  —  "  Take  the  soul  still  quivering  on  your  hand, 
The  soul  so  offered,  which  1  can  not  use,  860 

And,  please  you,  give  it  to  some  playful  friend, 
For  —  what 's  the  trifle  he  requites  me  with?" 
—  I,  tempt  a  woman,  to  amuse  a  man, 
That  two  may  mock  her  heart  if  it  succumb? 
No :  fearing  God  and  standing  'neath  His  heaven, 
I  would  not  dare  insult  a  woman  so, 
Were  she  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 
And  he,  I  cared  to  please,  ten  emperors! 

Con.    Norbert! 

Nor.  I  love  once  as  I  live  but  once. 

What  case  is  this  to  think  or  talk  about  ?  870 

I  love  you.     Would  it  mend  the  case  at  all 
If  such  a  step  as  this  killed  love  in  me? 
Your  part  were  done  :  account  to  God  for  it! 
But  mine  —  could  murdered  love  get  up  again, 
And  kneel  to  whom  you  please  to  designate, 
And  make  you  mirth?     It  is  too  horrible. 
You  did  not  know  this,  Constance  ?  now  you  know 
That  body  and  soul  have  each  one  life,  but  one ; 
And  here  's  my  love,  here,  living,  at  your  feet. 

Con.    See  the  Queen!     Norbert  —  this  one  more  last  word—     880 
If  thus  you  have  taken  jest  for  earnest  —  thus 
Loved  me  in  earnest.  .  .  . 

Nor.  Ah,  no  jest  holds  here! 

Where  is  the  laughter  in  which  jests  break  up, 
And  what  this  horror  that  grows  palpable? 
Madam  —  why  grasp  you  thus  the  balcony? 
Have  I  done  ill?     Have  I  not  spoken  truth? 
How  could  I  other?     Was  it  not  your  test, 
To  try  me,  what  my  love  for  Constance  meant? 
Madam,  your  royal  soul  itself  approves, 


338  IN  A   BALCONY. 

The  first,  that  I  should  choose  thus!  so  one  takes  890 

A  beggar,  —  asks  him,  what  would  buy  his  child  ? 

And  then  approves  the  expected  laugh  of  scorn 

Returned  as  something  noble  from  the  rags. 

Speak,  Constance,  I  'm  the  beggar!     Ha,  what 's  this? 

You  two  glare  each  at  each  like  panthers  now. 

Constance,  the  world  fades  :  only  you  stand  there! 

You  did  not,  in  to-night's  wild  whirl  of  things, 

Sell  me  —  your  soul  of  souls,  for  any  price  ? 

No  —  no  —  't  is  easy  to  believe  in  you ! 

Was  it  your  love's  mad  trial  to  o'ertop  QOO 

Mine  by  this  vain  self-sacrifice?  well,  still  — 

Tho'  I  might  curse,  I  love  you.     I  am  love 

And  can  not  change  :  love's  self  is  at  your  feet! 

{The  QUEEN  goes  out. 

Con.    Feel  my  heart ;  let  it  die  against  your  own! 

Nor.   Against  my  own.     Explain  not;  let  this  be! 
This  is  life's  height. 

Con.  Yours,  yours,  yours ! 

Nor.  You  and  I  — 

Why  care  by  what  meanders  we  are  here 
I'  the  centre  of  the  labyrinth?     Men  have  died 
Trying  to  find  this  place,  which  we  have  found. 

Con.    Found,  found ! 

Nor.  Sweet,  never  fear  what  she  can  do!         910 

We  are  past  harm  now. 

Con.  On  the  breast  of  God. 

I  thought  of  men  —  as  if  you  were  a  man. 
Tempting  him  with  a  crown! 

Nor.  This  must  end  here : 

It  is  too  perfect. 

Con.  There  's  the  music  stopped. 

What  measured  heavy  tread?     It  is  one  blaze 
About  me  and  within  me. 

Nor.  Oh.  some  death 

Will  run  its  sudden  finger  round  this  spark 
And  sever  us  from  the  rest! 

Con.  And  so  do  well. 

Now  the  doors  open. 

Nor.  'T  is  the  guard  comes. 

Con.  Kiss! 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  339 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

I/     t    *    ,' 

J-  _- 

'•pHE  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 
1     The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they  say:  " 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 

Of  the  villa-gate,  this  warm  March  day, 
No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 

In  the  valley  beneath  where,  white  and  wide 
And  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold, 
Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 


River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 

Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call, 
Thro'  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air, 

As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal  ball. 
And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised : 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me? 

in. 

Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours, 

Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you  so? 
Some  slights  if  a  certain  heart  endures 

Yet  it  feels,  I  would  have  your  fellows  know!  20 

I'  faith,  I  perceive  not  why  I  should  care 

To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them  best, 
But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to  bear 

When  I  find  a  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

IV. 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf, 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  which  they  never  shed) 

'Twixt  the  aloes,  I  used  to  lean  in  chief, 
And  mark  thro'  the  winter  afternoons, 

By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then,  30 

In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons, 

Who  walked  in  Florence,  besides  her  men. 

v. 

They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and  go 
For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive  — 


340 


OLD   PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I  trow, 
But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive ; 

—  With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch, 
The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 

Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch, 

Its  face  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave.  40 

VI. 

Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops, 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse-tick  pains : 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  the  brick, 

Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, 

—  A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  ancient  Master. 

VII. 

For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does! 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it,  5° 

The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  you  hum  and  buzz 

Round  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little  wit ! 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old  scope, 

Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope  ? 

'T  is  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 

VIII. 

Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you! 

But  the  wronged  great  souls  —  can  they  be  quit 
Of  a  world  where  their  work  is  all  to  do, 

Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the  little  wit,  60 

Old  Master  This  and  Early  the  Other, 

Not  dreaming  that  Old  and  New  are  fellows : 
A  younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother, 

Da  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from  Dellos. 


And  here  where  your  praise  might  yield  returns, 

And  a  handsome  word  or  two  give  help, 
Here,  after  your  kind,  the  mastiff  girns 

And  the  puppy  pack  of  poodles  yelp. 
What,  not  a  word  for  Stefano  there, 

Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry,  70 

Called  Nature's  Ape  and  the  world's  despair 

For  his  peerless  painting?     (See  Vasari.) 


OLD  PICTURES  Iff  FLORENCE.  34  j 


x. 


There  stands  the  Master.     Study,  my  friends, 

What  a  man's  work  comes  to!     So  he  plans  it, 
Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 

For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and  then,  sic  transit  I 
Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labour, 

With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand  is  busy, 
Not  sidling  a  glance  at  the  coin  of  their  neighbour! 

'T  is  looking  downward  that  makes  one  dizzy.  80 


"  If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal  your  dole." 

May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 
When  Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the  goal, 

Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast  infructu  — 
The  Truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first  spoken, 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble, 
Was  re-uttered,  and  Soul  (which  Limbs  betoken) 

And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  made  new  in  marble. 

XII. 

So,  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you  were, 

As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  can  not  be ;  90 

Earth  here,  rebuked  by  Olympus  there : 

And  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 
With  your  little  power,  by  those  statues1  godhead, 

And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes'  full  sway, 
And  your  little  grace,  by  their  grace  embodied, 

And  your  little  date,  by  their  forms  that  stay. 

XIII. 

You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say,  than  I  am? 

Even  so,  you  will  not  sit  like  Theseus. 
You  would  prove  a  model  ?     The  Son  of  Priam 

Has  yet  the  advantage  in  arms'  and  knees'  use.  loo 

You  're  wroth  —  can  you  slay  your  snake  like  Apollo? 

You  're  grieved  —  still  Niobe  's  the  grander! 
You  live — there  's  the  Racers'  frieze  to  follow: 

You  die  —  there  's  the  dying  Alexander. 

xrv. 

So,  testing  your  weakness  by  their  strength, 
Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded  beauty, 

Measured  by  Art  in  your  breadth  and  length, 
You  learned  —  to  submit  is  a  mortal's  duty. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

—  When  I  say  "you  "  't  is  the  common  soul, 

The  collective,  I  mean  :  the  race  of  Man  no 

That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  a  whole 

And  grow  here  according  to  God's  clear  plan. 

xv. 

Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last  on  them  all, 

You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one  fine  day 
And  cried  with  a  start  —  What  if  we  so  small 

Be  greater  and  grander  the  while  than  they  ? 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of  stature? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature  ; 

For  time,  theirs  —  ours,  for  eternity.  120 

XVI. 

To-day's  brief  passion  limits  their  range  ; 

It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and  more. 
They  are  perfect —  how  else  ?   they  shall  never  change : 

We  are  faulty  —  why  not?  we  have  time  in  store. 
The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 

With  us ;  we  are  rough-hewn,  no-wise  polished. 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once  invested 

With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see  them  abolished. 

XVII. 

'T  is  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be  leaven  — 

The  better!     What  's  come  to  perfection  perishes.  130 

Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise  in  heaven : 

Works  done  least  rapidly.  Art  most  cherishes. 
Thyself  shalt  afford  the  example,  Giotto ! 

Thy  one  work,  not  to  decrease  or  diminish, 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not  ?)  "  O ! " 

Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 

xvin. 

Is  it  true  that  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  hereafter, 

But  what  and  where  depend  on  life's  minute? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 

Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it?  140 

Shall  Man,  such  step  within  his  endeavour, 

Man's  face,  have  no  more  play  and  action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  for  ever, 

Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction? 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  343 

XDC. 

On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early  painters, 

To  cries  of  "  Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish  you?"  — 
Replied,  "  To  become  now  self-acquainters, 

And  paint  man,  man,  whatever  the  issue  ! 
Make  new  hopes  shine  thro'  the  flesh  they  fray, 

New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and  tatters :  150 

To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play ! 

Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs  —  what  matters?" 

xx. 

Give  these,  I  exhort  you,  their  guerdon  and  glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race's  story, 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old ;  't  is  no  idle  quiddit. 
The  worthies  began  a  revolution, 

Which  if  on  earth  you  intend  to  acknowledge, 
Why,  honour  them  now!  (ends  my  allocution) 

Nor  confer  your  degree  when  the  folk  leave  college.  160 

•  xxi. 

There  's  a  fancy  some  lean  to  and  others  hate  — 

That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and  wins : 
Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world's  congeries, 

Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small, 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series  ; 

Only  the  scale  's  to  be  changed,  that 's  all. 

XXII. 

Yet  I  hardly  know.     When  a  soul  has  seen 

By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best,  170 

And,  thro'  earth  and  its  noise,  what  is  heaven's  serene, — 

When  our  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the  test  — 
Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 

The  uses  of  labour  are  surely  done ; 
There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God : 

And  I  have  had  troubles  enough,  for  one. 

XXIII. 

But  at  any  rate  I  have  loved  the  season 

Of  Art's  spring-birth  so  dim  and  dewy : 
My  sculptor  is  Nicolo  the  Pisan, 

My  painter  —  who  but  Cimabue?  180 


344 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

Nor  ever  was  man  of  them  all  indeed, 

From  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Ghirlandajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. 

So,  now  to  my  special  grievance  —  heigh  ho  ! 

XXIV. 

Their  ghosts  still  stand,  as  I  said  before, 

Watching  each  fresco  flaked  and  rasped, 
Blocked  up,  knocked  out,  or  whitewashed  o'er : 

—  No  getting  again  what  the  Church  has  grasped! 
The  works  on  the  wall  must  take  their  chance  ; 

"Works  never  conceded  to  England's  thick  clime!  "  190 

(I  hope  they  prefer  their  inheritance 

Of  a  bucketful  of  Italian  quick-lime.) 

XXV. 

When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a  shaking 

Of  heads  o'er  the  old  delusion,  sadly 
Each  master  his  way  thro'  the  black  streets  taking, 

Where  many  a  lost  work  breathes  tho'  badly  — 
Why  don't  they  bethink  them  of  who  has  merited? 

Why  not  reveal,  while  their  pictures  dree 
Such  doom,  how  a  captive  might  be  out-ferreted? 

Why  is  it  they  never  remember  me?  200 

XXVI. 

Not  that  I  expect  the  great  Bigordi, 

Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric,  bellicose ; 
Nor  the  wronged  Lippino ;  and  not  a  word  I 

Say  of  a  scrap  of  Fra  Angelico's  : 
But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 

To  grant  me  a  taste  of  your  intonaco, 
Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven  with  a  sad  eye? 

Not  a  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco? 

XXVII. 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red  cap, 

My  Pollajolo,  the  twice  a  craftsman,  210 

Save  me  a  sample,  give  me  the  hap 

Of  a  muscular  Christ  that  shows  the  draughtsman? 
No  Virgin  by  him  the  somewhat  petty, 

Of  finical  touch  and  tempera  crumbly  — 
Could  not  Alesso  Baldovinetti 

Contribute  so  much,  I  ask  him  humbly? 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE.  345 

XXVIII. 

Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 

With  the  grave-clothes  garb  and  swaddling  barret 
(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a  pet  so, 

You  bald  old  saturnine  poll-clawed  parrot?)  220 

Not  a  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion, 

Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the  donor? 
If  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction, 

The  hoarding  it  does  you  but  little  honour. 

XXIX. 

They  pass  ;  for  them  the  panels  may  thrill, 

The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tinglish  ; 
Their  pictures  are  left  to  the  mercies  still 

Of  dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and  the  English, 
Who,  seeing  mere  money's  worth  in  their  prize, 

Will  sell  it  to  somebody  calm  as  Zeno  230 

At  naked  High  Art,  and  in  ecstacies 

Before  some  clay-cold  vile  Carlino  ! 

xxx. 

No  matter  for  these  !     But  Giotto,  you, 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the  town-tongues  babble  it, — 
Oh,  never!  it  shall  not  be  counted  true  — 

That  a  certain  precious  little  tablet 
Which  Buonarroti  eyed  like  a  lover, 

Was  buried  so  long  in  oblivion's  womb 
And,  left  for  another  than  I  to  discover, 

Turns  up  at  last!  and  to  whom? —  to  whom?  240 

XXXI 

I,  that  have  haunted  the  dim  San  Spirito, 

(Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti?) 
Patient  on  altar-step  planting  a  weary  toe  ! 

Nay,  I  shall  have  it  yet !     Detur  amantil 
My  Koh-i-noor — or  (if  that  's  a  platitude) 

Jewel  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Soft's  eye ; 
So,  in  anticipative  gratitude, 

What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy? 

XXXII. 

When  the  hour  grows  ripe,  and  a  certain  dotard 

Is  pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  invoicing,  250 

To  the  worst  side  of  the  Mont  St.  Gothard, 
We  shall  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing ; 


346  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

None  of  that  shooting  the  sky  (blank  cartridge), 

Nor  a  civic  guard,  all  plumes  and  lacquer, 
Hunting  Radetzky's  soul  like  a  partridge 

Over  Morello  with  squib  and  cracker. 

XXXIII. 

This  time  we  '11  shoot  better  game  and  bag  'em  hot  — 

No  mere  display  at  the  stone  of  Dante, 
But  a  kind  of  sober  Witanagemot 

(Ex  :  "  Casa  Guidi."1  quod  videas  ante)  260 

Shall  ponder,  once  Freedom  restored  to  Florence, 

How  Art  may  return  that  departed  with  her. 
Go,  hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the  Loraine's, 

And  bring  us  the  days  of  Orgagna  hither ! 

xxxiv. 

How  we  shall  prologize,  how  we  shall  perorate, 

Utter  fit  things  upon  art  and  history, 
Feel  truth  at  blood-heat  and  falsehood  at  zero  rate, 

Make  of  the  want  of  the  age  no  mystery  ; 
Contrast  the  fructuous  and  sterile  eras, 

Show  —  monarchy  ever  its  uncouth  cub  licks  270 

Out  of  the  bear's  shape  into  Chimaera's, 

While  Pure  Art's  birth  is  still  the  republic's  ! 

XXXV. 

Then  one  shall  propose  in  a  speech  (curt  Tuscan, 

Expurgate  and  sober,  with  scarcely  an  "  issimo  "), 
To  end  now  our  half-told  tale  of  Cambuscan, 

And  turn  the  bell-tower's  alt  to  altissiino : 
And,  fine  as  the  beak  of  a  young  beccaccia, 

The  Campanile,  the  Duomo's  fit  ally, 
Shall  soar  up  in  gold  full  fifty  braccia. 

Completing  Florence,  as  Florence,  Italy.  280 

XXXVI. 

Shall  I  be  alive  that  morning  the  scaffold 

Is  broken  away,  and  the  long-pent  fire, 
Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world,  unbaffled 

Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes  the  spire 
While,  "God  and  the  People  "  plain  for  its  motto, 

Thence  the  new  tricolour  flaps  at  the  sky  ? 
At  least  to  foresee  that  glory  of  Giotto 

And  Florence  together,  the  first  am  I ! 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY.  347 

NOTE.  —  The  space  left  here  tempts  to  a  word  on  the  line  about  Apollo  the 
snake-slayer,  which  my  friend  Professor  Colvin  condemns,  believing  that  the 
God  of  the  Belvedere  grasps  no  bow,  but  the  ^Egis,  as  described  in  the  1510 
Iliad.  Surely  the  text  represents  that  portentous  object  (Oovpiv,  Sfiv+iv,  dfl<pi- 
ddfffi.ai>,  dpiirpeirt'  —  fj.apfJ.ap^r]v^  as  "shaken  violently"  or  "held  immovably" 
by  both  hands,  not  a  single  one  and  that  the  left  hand  : 


dXXii  <ri)  7*  iv  xe/pe<r<ri  \dj3'  alyiSa  6v(rav6fffffai> 
TT)v  yowi 


and  so  on,  TTJV  &p  6  7'  fv  x^Pfffffiv  %XWV  —  XfPffiv*X  drp^fjut  K.T.\.  More- 
over, while  he  shook  it  he  "shouted  enormously,"  veiir',  eirl  d'  avrds  di/cre  /xaXa 
(j.eya,  which  the  statue  does  not.  Presently  when  Teukros,  on  the  other  side, 
plies  the  bow,  it  is  TO|OI>  e%a"'  ^"  Xeipi  ira\lvrovov.  Besides,  by  the  act  of 
discharging  an  arrow,  the  right  arm  and  hand  are  thrown  back  as  we  see  :  a 
quite  gratuitous  and  theatrical  display  in  the  case  supposed.  The  conjecture 
of  Flaxman  that  the  statue  was  suggested  by  the  bronze  Apollon  Alexikakos 
of  Kalamis,  mentioned  by  Pausanias,  remains  probable,  —  though  the  "  hard- 
ness "  which  Cicero  considers  to  distinguish  the  artist's  workmanship  from 
that  of  Muron  is  not  by  any  means  apparent  in  our  marble  copy,  if  it  be  one.  — 
Feb.  1  6,  1880. 


BISHOP   BLOUGRAM'S   APOLOGY. 

NO  more  wine?  then  we'll  push  back  chairs  and  talk. 
A  final  glass  for  me,  tho' :  cool,  i'  faith  ! 
We  ought  to  have  our  Abbey  back,  you  see. 
It 's  different,  preaching  in  basilicas, 
And  doing  duty  in  some  masterpiece 
Like  this  of  brother  Pugin's,  bless  his  heart! 
I  doubt  if  they  're  half  baked,  those  chalk  rosettes, 
Ciphers  and  stucco-twiddlings  everywhere  ; 
It 's  just  like  breathing  in  a  lime-kiln  :  eh  ? 

These  hot  long  ceremonies  of  our  Church  10 

Cost  us  a  little  —  oh,  they  pay  the  price, 
You  take  me  —  amply  pay  it  !     Now,  we  '11  talk! 

So,  you  despise  me,  Mr.  Gigadibs. 
No  deprecation, —  nay,  I  beg  you,  sir! 
Beside  't  is  our  engagement :  don't  you  know 
I  promised,  if  you  'd  watch  a  dinner  out, 
We  'd  see  truth  dawn  together?  — truth  that  peeps 
Over  the  glasses'  edge  when  dinner 's  done, 
And  body  gets  its  sop  and  holds  its  noise 

And  leaves  soul  free  a  little.     Now  's  the  time :  20 

Truth's  break  of  day!     You  do  despise  me  then. 
And  if  I  say,  "  despise  me,"  —  never  fear! 


348  BISHOP  BLOUGRAbrS  APOLOGY. 

I  know  you  do  not  in  a  certain  sense  — 
Not  in  my  arm-chair,  for  example  :  here, 
I  well  imagine  you  respect  my  place 
{Status,  entourage,  worldly  circumstance) 
Quite  to  its  value  —  very  much  indeed  : 

—  Are  up  to  the  protesting  eyes  of  you 
In  pride  at  being  seated  here  for  once  — 

You  '11  turn  it  to  such  capital  account !  3?. 

When  somebody,  thro1  years  and  years  to  come, 

Hints  of  the  bishop,  —  names  me  —  that 's  enough: 

"  Biougram?     I  knew  him  "  —  (into  it  you  slide) 

Dined  with  him  once,  a  Corpus  Christi  Day, 

All  alone,  we  two ;  he 's  a  clever  man  : 

And  after  dinner,  —  why,  the  wine  you  know, — 

Oh,  there  was  wine,  and  good  !  —  what  with  the  wine  .  .  . 

'Faith,  we  began  upon  all  sorts  of  talk  ! 

He 's  no  bad  fellow,  Biougram  ;  he  had  seen 

Something  of  mine  he  relished,  some  review  :  40 

He  's  quite  above  their  humbug  in  his  heart, 

Half-said  as  much,  indeed  — the  thing's  his  trade. 

I  warrant,  Biougram  's  sceptical  at  times  : 

How  otherwise?     I  liked  him,  I  confess!" 

Che,  che,  my  dear  sir,  as  we  say  at  Rome, 

Don't  you  protest  now!     It  's  fair  give  and  take  ; 

You  have  had  your  turn  and  spoken  your  home-truths : 

The  hand  's  mine  now,  and  here  you  follow  suit. 

Thus  much  conceded,  still  the  first  fact  stays  — 
You  do  despise  me  ;  your  ideal  of  life  50 

Is  not  the  bishop's  :  you  would  not  be  I. 
You  would  like  better  to  be  Goethe,  now, 
Or  Buonaparte,  or,  bless  me,  lower  still, 
Count  D'Orsay,  —  so  you  did  what  you  preferred, 
Spoke  as  you  thought,  and,  as  you  can  not  help, 
Believed  or  disbelieved,  no  matter  what, 
So  long  as  on  that  point,  whate'er  it  was, 
You  loosed  your  mind,  were  whole  and  sole  yourself. 

—  That,  my  ideal  never  can  include. 

Upon  that  element  of  truth  and  worth  60 

Never  be  based!  for  say  they  make  me  Pope  — 

(They  can't  —  suppose  it  for  our  argument!) 

Why,  there  I  'm  at  my  tether's  end,  I  've  reached 

My  height,  and  not  a  height  which  pleases  you  : 

An  unbelieving  Pope  won't  do,  you  say. 

It's  like  those  eerie  stories  nurses  tell, 

Of  how  some  actor  on  a  stage  played  Death, 

With  pasteboard  crown,  sham  orb  and  tinselled  dart, 

And  called  himself  the  monarch  of  the  world; 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

Then,  going  in  the  tire-room  afterward,  7O 

Because  the  play  was  done,  to  shift  himself, 

Got  touched  upon  the  sleeve  familiarly, 

The  moment  he  had  shut  the  closet  door, 

By  Death  himself.     Thus  God  might  touch  a  Pope 

At  unawares,  ask  what  his  baubles  mean, 

And  whose  part  he  presumed  to  play  just  now 

Best  be  yourself,  imperial,  plain  and  true! 

So,  drawing  comfortable  breath  again. 

You  weigh  and  find,  whatever  more  or  less 

I  boast  of  my  ideal  realized,  80 

Is  nothing  in  the  balance  when  opposed 

To  your  ideal,  your  grand  simple  life, 

Of  which  you  will  not  realize  one  jot. 

I  am  much,  you  are  nothing ;  you  would  be  all, 

I  would  be  merely  much :  you  beat  me  there. 

No,  friend,  you  do  not  beat  me :  harken  why! 

The  common  problem,  yours,  mine,  every  one's, 

Is  —  not  to  fancy  what  were  fair  in  life 

Provided  it  could  be,  —  but,  finding  first 

What  may  be,  then  find  how  to  make  it  fair  go 

Up  to  our  means  :  a  very  different  thing  ! 

No  abstract  intellectual  plan  of  life 

Quite  irrespective  of  life's  plainest  laws, 

But  one,  a  man,  who  is  man  and  nothing  more, 

May  lead  within  a  world  which  (by  your  leave) 

Is  Rome  or  London,  not  Fool's-paradise. 

Embellish  Rome,  idealize  away, 

Make  paradise  of  London  if  you  can, 

You  're  welcome,  nay,  you  're  wise. 

A  simile ! 

We  mortals  cross  the  ocean  of  this  world  100 

Each  in  his  average  cabin  of  a  life ; 
The  best 's  not  big,  the  worst  yields  elbow-room. 
Now  for  our  six  months'  voyage  —  how  prepare? 
You  come  on  shipboard  with  a  landsman's  list 
Of  things  he  calls  convenient :  so  they  are  ! 
An  India  screen  is  pretty  furniture, 
A  piano-forte  is  a  fine  resource, 
All  Balzac's  novels  occupy  one  shelf, 
The  new  edition  fifty  volumes  long ; 

And  little  Greek  books,  with  the  funny  type  lio 

They  get  up  well  at  Leipsic,  fill  the  next : 
Go  on!  slabbed  marble,  what  a  bath  it  makes! 


350  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

And  Parma's  pride,  the  Jerome,  let  us  add  ! 

1T  were  pleasant  could  Correggio's  fleeting  glow 

Hang  full  in  face  of  one  where'er  one  roams, 

Since  he  more  than  the  others  brings  with  him 

Italy's  self,  —  the  marvellous  Modenese  !  — 

Yet  was  not  on  your  list  before,  perhaps. 

—  Alas,  friend,  here  's  the  agent  ...  is 't  the  name? 

The  captain,  or  whoever 's  master  here —  120 

You  see  him  screw  his  face  up ;  what 's  his  cry 

Ere  you  set  foot  on  shipboard  ?  "  Six  feet  square  !  " 

If  you  won't  understand  what  six  feet  mean, 

Compute  and  purchase  stores  accordingly  — 

And  if,  in  pique  because  he  overhauls 

Your  Jerome,  piano,  bath,  you  come  on  board 

Bare  —  why,  you  cut  a  figure  at  the  first 

While  sympathetic  landsmen  see  you  off; 

Not  afterward,  when  long  ere  half  seas  over, 

You  peep  up  from  your  utterly  naked  boards  130 

Into  some  snug  and  well-appointed  berth, 

Like  mine  for  instance  (try  the  cooler  jug —  • 

Put  back  the  other,  but  don't  jog  the  ice  !) 

And  mortified  you  mutter  "  Well  and  good ; 

He  sits  enjoying  his  sea-furniture ; 

'T  is  stout  and  proper,  and  there  's  store  of  it : 

Tho'  I  've  the  better  notion,  all  agree, 

Of  fitting  rooms  up.     Hang  the  carpenter, 

Neat  ship-shape  fixings  and  contrivances  — 

I  would  have  brought  my  Jerome,  frame  and  all  !"  140 

And  meantime  you  bring  nothing  :  never  mind  — 

You  've  proved  your  artist-nature  :  what  you  don't 

You  might  bring,  so  despise  me,  as  I  say. 

Now  come,  let 's  backward  to  the  starting-place. 
See  my  way :  we  're  two  college  friends,  suppose. 
Prepare  together  for  our  voyage,  then ; 
Each  note  and  check  the  other  in  his  work,  — 
Here's  mine,  a  bishop's  outfit;  criticize! 
What 's  wrong?  why  won't  you  be  a  bishop  too? 

Why  first,  you  don't  believe,  you  don't  and  can't,  150 

(Not  statedly,  that  is,  and  fixedly 
And  absolutely  and  exclusively) 
In  any  revelation  called  divine. 
No  dogmas  nail  your  faith  ;  and  what  remains 
But  say  so,  like  the  honest  man  you  are? 
First,  therefore,  overhaul  theology! 
Nay,  I  too,  not  a  fool,  you  please  to  think, 
Must  find  believing  every  whit  as  hard : 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY.  35 1 

And  if  I  do  not  frankly  say  as  much, 

The  ugly  consequence  is  clear  enough.  160 

Now  wait,  my  friend:  well,  I  do  not  believe  — 
If  you  '11  accept  no  faith  that  is  not  fixed, 
Absolute  and  exclusive,  as  you  say. 
You  're  wrong —  I  mean  to  prove  it  in  due  time. 
Meanwhile,  I  know  where  difficulties  lie 
I  could  not,  can  not  solve,  nor  ever  shall, 
So  give  up  hope  accordingly  to  solve  — 
(To  you,  and  over  the  wine) .     Our  dogmas  then 
With  both  of  us,  tho'  in  unlike  degree, 

Missing  full  credence  —  overboard  with  them!  170 

I  mean  to  meet  you  on  your  own  premise : 
Good,  there  go  mine  in  company  with  yours! 

And  now  what  are  we?  unbelievers  both, 
Calm  and  complete,  determinately  fixed 
To-day,  to-morrow  and  for  ever,  pray  ? 
You  '11  guarantee  me  that?     Not  so,  I  think! 
In  no  wise!  all  we  Ve  gained  is,  that  belief, 
As  unbelief  before,  shakes  us  by  fits, 
Confounds  us  like  its  predecessor.     Where  's 
The  gain?  how  can  we  guard  our  unbelief,  180 

Make  it  bear  fruit  to  us?  —  the  problem  here. 
Just  when  we  are  safest,  there  's  a  sunset-touch, 
A  fancy  from  a  flower-bell,  some  one's  death, 
A  chorus-ending  from  Euripides,  — 
And  that 's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears 
As  old  and  new  at  once  as  nature's  self, 
To  rap  and  knock  and  enter  in  our  soul, 
Take  hands  and  dance  there,  a  fantastic  ring, 
Round  the  ancient  idol,  on  his  base  again,  — 
The  grand  Perhapsj.    We  look  on  helplessly.  190 

There  the  old  misgivings,  crooked  questions  are  — 
This  good  God,  —  what  he  could  do,  if  he  would, 
Would,  if  he  could  —  then  must  have  done  long  since : 
If  so,  when,  where  and  how?  some  way  must  be,— 
Once  feel  about,  and  soon  or  late  you  hit 
Some  sense,  in  which  it  might  be,  after  all. 
Why  not  "The  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life?" 

—  That  way 

Over  the  mountain,  which  who  stands  upon 
Is  apt  to  doubt  if  it  be  meant  for  a  road  ; 

While,  if  he  views  it  from  the  waste  itself,  200 

Up  goes  the  line  there,  plain  from  base  to  brow, 
Not  vague,  mistakeable!  what  's  a  break  or  two 


352  BISHOP  BLOUGRAAfS  APOLOGY. 

Seen  from  the  unbroken  desert  either  side  ? 
And  then  (to  bring  in  fresh  philosophy) 
What  if  the  breaks  themselves  should  prove  at  last 
The  most  consummate  of  contrivances 
To  train  a  man's  eye,  teach  him  what  is  faith? 
And  so  we  stumble  at  truth's  very  test! 
All  we  have  gained  then  by  our  unbelief 

I  Is  a  life  of  doubt  diversified  by  faith,  210 

For  one  of  faith  diversified  by  doubt : 
We  called  the  chess-board  white,  —  we  call  it  black. 

"  Well,"  you  rejoin,  "  the  end  's  no  worse,  at  least ; 
We  've  reason  for  both  colours  on  the  board : 
Why  not  confess  then,  where  I  drop  the  faith 
And  you  the  doubt,  that  I  'm  as  right  as  you?" 

Because,  friend,  in  the  next  place,  this  being  so, 
And  both  things  even,  —  faith  and  unbelief 
Left  to  a  man's  choice,  —  we  '11  proceed  a  step, 
Returning  to  our  image,  which  I  like.  220 

A  man's  choice,  yes  —  but  a  cabin  passenger's  — 
The  man  made  for  the  special  life  o'  the  world  — 
Do  you  forget  him?     I  remember  though! 
Consult  our  ship's  conditions  and  you  find 
One  and  but  one  choice  suitable  to  all; 
The  choice,  that  you  unluckily  prefer, 
Turning  things  topsy-turvy  —  they  or  it 
Going  to  the  ground.     Belief  or  unbelief 
Bears  upon  life,  determines  its  whole  course, 
Begins  at  its  beginning.     See  the  world  230 

Such  as  it  is,  —  you  made  it  not,  nor  I ; 
I  mean  to  take  it  as  it  is,  —  and  you, 
Not-so  you  '11  take  it,  —  tho'  you  get  naught  else. 
I  know  the  special  kind  of  life  I  like, 
What  suits  the  most  my  idiosyncrasy, 
Brings  out  the  best  of  me  and  bears  me  fruit 
In  power,  peace,  pleasantness  and  length  of  days 
I  find  that  positive  belief  does  this 
For  me,  and  unbelief,  no  whit  of  this. 

—  For  you,  it  does,  however?  —  that,  we  '11  try!  240 

'T  is  clear,  I  can  not  lead  my  life,  at  least, 
Induce  the  world  to  let  me  peaceably, 
Without  declaring  at  the  outset,  "  Friends, 
I  absolutely  and  peremptorily 
Believe !  "  —  I  say,  faith  is  my  waking  life : 
One  sleeps,  indeed,  and  dreams  at  intervals, 
We  know,  but  waking 's  the  main  point  with  us 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

And  my  provision 's  for  life's  waking  part. 

Accordingly,  I  use  heart,  head  and  hand 

All  day,  1  build,  scheme,  study,  and  make  friends :  250 

And  when  night  overtakes  me,  down  I  lie, 

Sleep,  dream  a  little,  and  get  done  with  it, 

The  sooner  the  better,  to  begin  afresh. 

What  's  midnight  doubt  before  the  dayspring's  faith? 

You,  the  philosopher,  that  disbelieve, 

That  recognize  the  night,  give  dreams  their  weight  — 

To  be  consistent  you  should  keep  your  bed, 

Abstain  from  healthy  acts  that  prove  you  man, 

For  fear  you  drowse  perhaps  at  unawares! 

And  certainly  at  night  you  '11  sleep  and  dream,  260 

Live  thro'  the  day  and  bustle  as  you  please, 

And  so  you  live  to  sleep  as  I  to  wake, 

To  unbelieve  as  I  to  still  believe? 

Well,  and  the  common  sense  o'  the  world  calls  you 

Bed-ridden,  —  and  its  good  things  come  to  me. 

Its  estimation,  which  is  half  the  fight, 

That  's  the  first-cabin  comfort  I  secure : 

The  next  .  .  .  but  you  perceive  with  half  an  eye! 

Come,  come,  it  's  best  believing,  if  we  may ; 

You  can't  but  own  that! 

Next,  concede  again,  270 

If  once  we  choose  belief,  on  all  accounts 
We  can't  be  too  decisive  in  our  faith. 
Conclusive  and  exclusive  in  its  terms, 
To  suit  the  world  which  gives  us  the  good  things. 
In  every  man's  career  are  certain  points 
Whereon  he  dares  not  be  indifferent ; 
The  world  detects  him  clearly,  if  he  dare, 
As  baffled  at  the  game,  and  losing  life. 
He  may  care  little,  or  he  may  care  much 

For  riches,  honour,  pleasure,  work,  repose,  280 

Since  various  theories  of  life  and  life's 
Success  are  extant  which  might  easily 
Comport  with  either  estimate  of  these ; 
And  whoso  chooses  wealth  or  poverty, 
Labour  or  quiet,  is  not  judged  a  fool 
Because  his  fellow  would  choose  otherwise : 
We  let  him  choose  upon  his  own  account 
So  long  as  he  's  consistent  with  his  choice. 
But  certain  points,  left  wholly  to  himself, 

When  once  a  man  has  arbitrated  on,  290 

We  say  he  must  succeed  there  or  go  hang. 
Thus,  he  should  wed  the  woman  he  loves  most 
Or  needs  most,  whatsoe'er  the  love  or  need — 


354  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

For  he  can't  wed  twice.     Then,  he  must  avouch, 

Or  follow,  at  the  least,  sufficiently, 

The  form  of  faith  his  conscience  holds  the  best, 

Whate'er  the  process  of  conviction  was  : 

For  nothing  can  compensate  his  mistake 

On  such  a  point,  the  man  himself  being  judge  : 

He  can  not  wed  twice,  nor  twice  lose  his  soul.  300 

Well  now,  there  's  one  great  form  of  Christian  faith 
I  happened  to  be  born  in  —  which  to  teach 
Was  given  me  as  I  grew  up,  on  all  hands, 
As  best  and  readiest  means  of  living  by ; 
The  same  on  examination  being  proved 
The  most  pronounced  moreover,  fixed,  precise 
And  absolute  form  of  faith  in  the  whole  world  — 
Accordingly,  most  potent  of  all  forms 
For  working  on  the  world.     Observe,  my  friend! 
Such  as  you  know  me,  I  am  free  to  say,  310 

In  these  hard  latter  days  which  hamper  one, 
Myself —  by  no  immoderate  exercise 
Of  intellect  and  learning,  but  the  tact 
To  let  external  forces  work  for  me, 
—  Bid  the  street's  stones  be  bread  and  they  are  bread ; 
Bid  Peter's  creed,  or  rather,  Hildebrand's, 
Exalt  me  o'er  my  fellows  in  the  world 
And  make  my  life  an  ease  and  joy  and  pride  ; 
It  does  so,  —  which  for  me  's  a  great  point  gained, 
Who  have  a  soul  and  body  that  exact  320 

A  comfortable  care  in  many  ways. 
There  's  power  in  me  and  will  to  dominate 
Which  I  must  exercise,  they  hurt  me  else : 
In  many  ways  I  need  mankind's  respect, 
Obedience,  and  the  love  that 's  born  of  fear : 
While  at  the  same  time,  there  's  a  taste  I  have, 
A  toy  of  soul,  a  titillating  thing, 
Refuses  to  digest  these  dainties  crude. 
The  naked  life  is  gross  till  clothed  upon : 

I  must  take  what  men  offer,  with  a  grace  330 

As  tho'  I  would  not,  could  I  help  it,  take! 
An  uniform  I  wear  tho'  over-rich  — 
Something  imposed  on  me,  no  choice  of  mine ; 
No  fancy-dress  worn  for  pure  fancy's  sake 
And  despicable  therefore!  now  folk  kneel 
,         And  kiss  my  hand  —  of  course  the  Church's  hand. 
Thus  I  am  made,  thus  life  is  best  for  me, 
And  thus  that  it  should  be  I  have  procured ; 
And  thus  it  could  not  be  another  way. 
I  venture  to  imagine. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 


355 


You  '11  reply,  340 

So  far  my  choice,  no  doubt,  is  a  success ; 
But  were  I  made  of  better  elements, 
With  nobler  instincts,  purer  tastes,  like  you, 
I  hardly  would  account  the  thing  success 
Tho'  it  did  all  for  me  I  say. 

But,  friend, 

We  speak  of  what  is ;  not  of  what  might  be, 
And  how  't  were  better  if 't  were  otherwise. 
I  am  the  man  you  see  here  plain  enough  : 
Grant  I  'm  a  beast,  why,  beasts  must  lead  beasts1  lives! 
Suppose  I  own  at  once  to  tail  and  claws ;  350 

The  tailless  man  exceeds  me  :  but  being  tailed 
I  '11  lash  out  lion  fashion,  and  leave  apes 
To  dock  their  stump  and  dress  their  haunches  up. 
My  business  is  not  to  remake  myself. 
But  make  the  absolute  best  of  what  God  made. 
Or  —  our  first  simile  —  tho'  you  prove  me  doomed 
To  a  viler  berth  still,  to  the  steerage-hole, 
The  sheep-pen  or  the  pig-stye,  I  should  strive 
To  make  what  use  of  each  were  possible ; 

And,  as  this  cabin  gets  upholstery,  360 

That  hutch  should  rustle  with  sufficient  straw. 

But,  friend,  I  don't  acknowledge  quite  so  fast 
I  fail  of  all  your  manhood's  lofty  tastes 
Enumerated  so  complacently, 
On  the  mere  ground  that  you  forsooth  can  find 
In  this  particular  life  I  choose  to  lead 
No  fit  provision  for  them.     Can  you  not  ? 
Say  you,  my  fault  is  I  address  myself 
To  grosser  estimators  than  should  judge  ? 

And  that 's  no  way  of  holding  up  the  soul,  370 

Which,  nobler,  needs  men's  praise  perhaps,  yet  knows 
One  wise  man's  verdict  outweighs  all  the  fools'  — 
Would  like  the  two,  but,  forced' to  choose,  takes  that. 
I  pine  among  my  million  imbeciles 
(You  think)  aware  some  dozen  men  of  sense 
Eye  me  and  know  me,  whether  I  believe 
In  the  last  winking  Virgin,  as  I  vow, 
And  am  a  fool,  or  disbelieve  in  her 
And  am  a  knave,  —  approve  in  neither  case, 
Withhold  their  voices  though  I  look  their  way :  380 

Like  Verdi  when,  at  his  worst  opera's  end 
(The  thing  they  gave  at  Florence  —  what 's  its  name?) 
While  the  mad  houseful's  plaudits  near  out-bang 
His  orchestra  of  salt-box,  tongs  and  bones, 


356  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

He  looks  thro'  all  the  roaring  and  the  wreaths 
Where  sits  Rossini  patient  in  his  stall. 

Nay,  friend,  I  meet  you  with  an  answer  here — 
That  even  your  prime  men  who  appraise  their  kind 
Are  men  still,  catch  a  wheel  within  a  wheel, 

See  more  in  a  truth  than  the  truth's  simple  self,  390 

Confuse  themselves.     You  see  lads  walk  the  street 
Sixty  the  minute ;  what 's  to  note  in  that? 
You  see  one  lad  o'erstride  a  chimney-stack ; 
Him  you  must  watch —  he  's  sure  to  fall,  yet  stands! 
Our  imtprp <;t  'g  pa  the  dangerous  f  dfif  of  thinrq 
The  honest  thief,  the  tender  murderer, 
The  superstitious  atheist,  demirep 
That  loves  and  saves  her  soul  in  new  French  books  — 
We  watch  while  these  in  equilibrium  keep 

The  giddy  line  midway :  one  step  aside,  400 

They  're  classed  and  done  with.     I,  then,  keep  the  line 
Before  your  sages, — just  the  men  to  shrink 
From  the  gross  weights,  coarse  scales  and  labels  broad 
You  offer  their  refinement.     Fool  or  knave? 
Why  needs  a  bishop  be  a  fool  or  knave 
When  there's  a  thousand  diamond  weights  between? 
So,  I  enlist  them.     Your  picked  twelve,  you  :11  find 
1-rotess  themselves  indignant,  scandalized 
At  thus  being  held  unable  to  explain 

How  a  superior  man  who  disbelieves  410 

May  not  believe  as  well :  that 's  Schelling's  way! 
It 's  thro'  my  coming  in  the  tail  of  time, 
Nicking  the  minute  with  a  happy  tact. 
Had  I  been  born  three  hundred  years  ago 

They  'd  say,  "'  What 's  strange  ?     Blougram  of  course  believes ; " 
And,  seventy  years  since,  "disbelieves  of  course." 
But  now,  "  He  may  believe ;  and  yet,  and  yet 
How  can  he?  "     All  eyes  turn  with  interest. 
W'hereas,  step  off  the  line  on  either  side  — 
You,  for  example,  clever  to  a  fault,  420 

The  rough  and  ready  man  who  write  apace, 
Read  somewhat  seldomer,  think  perhaps  even  less  — 
You  disbelieve!     Who  wonders  and  who  cares? 
Lord  So-and-so  —  his  coat  bedropped  with  wax, 
All  Peter's  chains  about  his  waist,  his  back 
Brave  with  the  needlework  of  Noodledom  — 
Believes!     Again,  who  wonders  and  who  cares? 
But  I,  the  man  of  sense  and  learning  too, 
The  able  to  think  yet  act.  the  this,  the  that, 
I,  to  believe  at  this  late  time  of  day!  430 

Enough  ;  you  see,  I  need  not  fear  contempt. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY.  357 

—  Except  it 's  yours!    Admire  me  as  these  may, 
You  don't.     But  whom  at  least  do  you  admire? 
Present  your  own  perfection,  your  ideal, 
Your  pattern  man  for  a  minute  —  oh,  make  haste! 
Is  it  Napoleon  you  would  have  us  grow? 
Concede  the  means ;  allow  his  head  and  hand 
(A  large  concession,  clever  as  you  are) 
Good!     In  our  common  primal  element 

Of  unbelief  (we  can't  believe,  you  know —  440 

We  're  still  at  that  admission,  recollect !) 
Where  do  you  find — apart  from,  towering  o'er 
The  secondary  temporary  aims 
Which  satisfy  the  gross  taste  you  despise  — 
Where  do  you  find  his  star?  —  his  crazy  trust  — 
God  knows  thro'  what  or  in  what?  it 's  alive 
And  shines  and  leads  him,  and  that  's  all  we  want. . 
Have  we  aught  in  our  sober  night  shall  point 
Such  ends  as  his  were,  and  direct  the  means 
Of  working  out  our  purpose  straight  as  his,  450 

Nor  bring  a  moment's  trouble  on  success 
With  after-care  to  justify  the  same  ? 
—  Be  a  Napoleon  and  yet  disbelieve  — 
'Why,  the  man  's  mad,  friend,  take  his  light  away. 
What 's  the  vague  good  o'  the  world,  for  which  you  dare 
With  comfort  to  yourself  blow  millions  up  ? 
We  neither  of  us  see  it !  we  do  see 
The  blown-up  millions  —  spatter  of  their  brains 
And  writhing  of  their  bowels  and  so  forth, 
In  that  bewildering  entanglement  460 

Of  horrible  eventualities 
Past  calculation  to  the  end  of  time ! 
Can  I  mistake  for  some  clear  word  of  God 
(Which  were  my  ample  warrant  for  it  all) 
His  puff  of  hazy  instinct,  idle  talk, 
"  The  State,  that 's  I,"  quack-nonsense  about  crowns 
And  (when  one  beats  the  man  to  his  last  hold) 
A  vague  idea  of  setting  things  to  rights, 
Policing  people  efficaciously, 

More  to  their  profit,  most  of  all  to  his  OWR;  470 

The  whole  to  end  that  dismallest  of  ends 
By  an  Austrian  marriage,  cant  to  us  the  Church, 
And  resurrection  of  the  old  regime  ? 
Would  I,  who  hope  to  live  a  dozen  years, 
Fight  Austerlitz  for  reasons  such  and  such? 
No  :  for,  concede  me  but  the  merest  chance 
Doubt  may  be  wrong  —  there  's  judgment,  life  to  come! 
With  just  that  chance,  I  dare  not.     Doubt  proves  right? 
This  present  life  is  all  ?  —  you  offer  me 


358  BISHOP  BLOUGRAArS  APOLOGY 

Its  dozen  noisy  years,  without  a  chance  480 

That  wedding  an  arch -duchess,  wearing  lace, 

And  getting  called  by  divers  new-coined  names, 

Will  drive  off  ugly  thoughts  and  let  me  dine, 

Sleep,  read  and  chat  in  quiet  as  I  like ! 

Therefore  I  will  not. 

Take  another  case : 
Fit  up  the  cabin  yet  another  way. 
What  say  you  to  the  poets  ?  shall  we  write 
Hamlet,  Othello  —  make  the  world  our  own, 
Without  a  risk  to  run  of  either  sort  ? 

I  can't !  —  to  put  the  strongest  reason  first.  490 

"  But  try,"  you  urge, "  the  trying  shall  suffice  : 
The  aim,  if  reached  or  not,  makes  great  the  life : 
Try  to  be  Shakespeare,  leave  the  rest  to  fate! " 
Spare  my  self-knowledge  —  there  's  no  fooling  me! 
If  I  prefer  remaining  my  poor  self, 
I  say  so  not  in  self-dispraise  but  praise, 
If  I  'm  a  Shakespeare,  let  the  well  alone! 
Why  should  I  try  to  be  what  now  I  am  ? 
If  I  'm  no  Shakespeare,  as  too  probable,  —  « 

His  power  and  consciousness  and  self-delight  500 

And  all  we  want  in  common,  shall  I  find  — 
Trying  for  ever?  while  on  points  of  taste 
Wherewith,  to  speak  it  humbly,  he  and  I 
Are  dowered  alike  —  I  '11  ask  you,  I  or  he, 
Which  in  our  two  lives  realizes  most  ? 
Much,  he  imagined :  somewhat,  I  possess. 
He  had  the  imagination;  stick  to  that! 
Let  him  say.  '''In  the  face  of  my  soul's  works 
Your  world  is  worthless  and  I  touch  it  not 
Lest  I  should  wrong  them  "  —  I  '11  withdraw  my  plea  510 

But  does  he  say  so?  look  upon  his  life! 
Himself,  who  only  can,  gives  judgment  there. 
He  leaves  his  towers  and  gorgeous  palaces 
To  build  the  trimmest  house  in  Stratford  town ; 
Saves  money,  spends  it,  owns  the  worth  of  things, 
Giulio  Romano's  pictures,  Dowland's  lute ; 
Enjoys  a  show,  respects  the  puppets,  too. 
And  none  more,  had  he  seen  its  entry  once, 
Than  "  Pandulph.  of  fair  Milan  cardinal." 
Why  then  should  I  who  play  that  personage,  520 

The  very  Pandulph  Shakespeare's  fancy  made, 
Be  told  that  had  the  poet  chanced  to  start 
From  where  I  stand  now  (some  degree  like  mine 
Being  just  the  goal  he  ran  his  race  to  reach) 
He  would  have  run  the  whole  race  back,  forsooth. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

And  left  being  Pandulph,  to  begin  write  plays? 

Ah,  the  earth's  best  can  be  but  the  earth's  best! 

Did  Shakespeare  live,  he  could  but  sit  at  home 

And  get  himself  in  dreams  the  Vatican, 

Greek  busts,  Venetian  paintings,  Roman  walls,  530 

And  English  books,  none  equal  to  his  own, 

Which  I  read,  bound  in  gold  (he  never  did). 

—  Term's  fall,  Naples'  bay  and  Gothard's  top  — 

Eh,  friend  ?     I  could  not  fancy  one  of  these ; 

But,  as  I  pour  this  claret,  there  they  are : 

I  Ye  gained  them  —  crossed  St.  Gothard  last  July 

With  ten  mules  to  the  carriage  and  a  bed 

Slung  inside ;  is  my  hap  the  worse  for  that? 

We  want  the  same  things,  Shakespeare  and  myself, 

And  what  I  want,  I  have :  he,  gifted  more,  540 

Could  fancy  he  too  had  them  when  he  liked, 

But  not  so  thoroughly  that,  if  fate  allowed, 

He  would  not  have  them  also  in  mv  sense. 

We  play  one  game ;  I  send  the  ball  aloft 

No  less  adroitly  that  of  fifty  strokes 

Scarce  five  go  o'er  the  wall  so  wide  and  high 

Which  sends  them  back  to  me  :  I  wish  and  get. 

He  struck  balls  higher  and  with  better  skill, 

But  at  a  poor  fence  level  with  his  head, 

And  hit  —  his  Stratford  house,  a  coat  of  arms,  550 

Successful  dealings  in  his  grain  and  wool, — 

While  I  receive  heaven's  incense  in  my  nose 

And  style  myself  the  cousin  of  Queen  Bess. 

Ask  him,  if  this  life  's  all,  who  wins  the  game? 

Believe — and  our  whole  argument  breaks  up. 
Enthusiasm  's  the  best  thing,  I  repeat ; 
Only,  we  can't  command  it ;  fire  and  life 
Are  all,  dead  matter 's  nothing,  we  agree  : 
And  be  it  a  mad  dream  or  God's  very  breath, 
The  fact 's  the  same, —  belief's  fire,  once  in  us,  560 

Makes  of  all  else  mere  stuff  to  show  itself: 
We  penetrate  our  life  with  such  a  glow 
As  fire  lends  wood  and  iron  —  this  turns  steel, 
That  burns  to  ash  — all 's  one,  fire  proves  its  power 
For  good  or  ill,  since  men  call  flare  success. 
But  paint  a  fire,  it  will  not  therefore  burn. 
Light  one  in  me,  I  '11  find  it  food  enough! 
Why,  to  be  Luther  —  that 's  a  life  to  lead, 
Incomparably  better  than  my  own. 

He  comes,  reclaims  God's  earth  for  God,  he  says,  570 

Sets  up  God's  rule  again  by  simple  means, 
Re-opens  a  shut  book,  and  all  is  done. 


360  BISHOP  BLOLTGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

He  flared  out  in  the  flaring  of  mankind  ; 

Such  Luther's  luck  was  :  how  shall  such  be  mine? 

If  he  succeeded,  nothing  's  left  to  do  : 

And  if  he  did  not  altogether — well, 

Strauss  is  the  next  advance.     All  Strauss  should  be 

I  might  be  also.     But  to  what  result? 

He  looks  upon  no  future  :  Luther  did. 

What  can  I  gain  on  the  denying  side?  580 

Ice  makes  no  conflagration.     State  the  facts, 

Read  the  text  right,  emancipate  the  world  — 

The  emancipated  world  enjoys  itself 

With  scarce  a  thank-you  :  Blougram  told  it  first 

It  could  not  owe  a  farthing,  —  not  to  him 

More  than  Saint  Paul!  't  would  press  its  pay,  you  think? 

Then  add  there  's  still  that  plaguy  hundredth  chance 

Strauss  may  be  wrong.     And  so  a  risk  is  run  — 

For  what  gain  ?  not  for  Luther's,  who  secured 

A  real  heaven  in  his  heart  throughout  his  life,  590 

Supposing  death  a  little  altered  things. 

"  Ay,  but  since  really  you  lack  faith,1'  you  cry, 
"  You  run  the  same  risk  really  on  all  sides, 
In  cool  indifference  as  bold  unbelief. 
As  well  be  Strauss  as  swing  'twixt  Paul  and  him. 
It 's  not  worth  having,  such  imperfect  faith, 
No  more  available  to  do  faith's  work 
Than  unbelief  like  mine.     Whole  faith,  or  none!" 

Softly,  my  friend !     I  must  dispute  that  point. 
Once  own  the  use  of  faith,  I  'II  find  you  faith.  600 

We  're  back  on  Christian  ground.     You  call  for  faith  : 
I  show  you  doubt,  to  prove  that  faith  exists. 
The  more  of  doubt,  the  stronger  faith,  I  say, 
If  faith  o'ercomes  doubt.     How  I  know  it  does? 
By  life  and  man's  free  will.  God  gave  for  that! 
To  mould  life  as  we  choose  it,  shows  our  choice : 
That 's  our  one  act,  the  previous  work  's  His  own. 
You  criticize  the  soul  ?  it  reared  this  tree  — 
This  broad  life  and  whatever  fruit  it  bears ! 

What  matter  tho'  I  doubt  at  every  pore,  610 

Head-doubts,  heart-doubts,  doubts  at  my  fingers'  ends, 
Doubts  in  the  trivial  work  of  every  day, 
Doubts  at  the  very  bases  of  my  soul 
In  the  grand  moments  when  she  probes  herself— 
If  finally  I  have  a  life  to  show. 
The  thing  I  did,  brought  out  in  evidence 
Against  the  thing  done  to  me  underground 
By  hell  and  all  its  brood,  for  aught  I  know? 
I  say,  whence  sprang  this?  shows  it  faith  or  doubt? 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY.  36 1 

All 's  doubt  in  me ;  where  's  break  of  faith  in  this  ?  620 

It  is  the  idea,  the  feeling  and  the  love, 
God  means  mankind  should  strive  for  and  show  forth 
Whatever  be  the  process  to  that  end,  — 
And  not  historic  knowledge,  logic  sound, 
And  metaphysical  acumen,  sure! 

V  "  What  think  ye  of  Christ,"  friend  ?  when  all 's  done  and  said, 
Like  you  this  Christianity  or  not? 
It  may  be  false,  but  will  you  wish  it  true? 
Has  it  your  vote  to  be  so  if  it  can  ? 

Trust  you  an  instinct  silenced  long  ago  630 

That  will  break  silence  and  enjoin  you  love 
What  mortified  philosophy  is  hoarse, 

IAnd  all  in  vain,  with  bidding  you  despise? 
If  you  desire  faith  —  then  you  've  faith  enough : 
What  else  seeks  God  —  nay,  what  else  seek  ourselves  ? 
You  form  a  notion  of  me,  we  '11  suppose, 
On  hearsay  ;  it 's  a  favourable  one  : 
l<  But  still,"  (you  add)  "  there  was  no  such  good  man, 
Because  of  contradiction  in  the  facts. 

One  proves,  for  instance,  he  was  born  in  Rome,  640 

This  Blougram  ;  yet  throughout  the  tales  of  him 
I  see  he  figures  as  an  Englishman." 
Well,  the  two  things  are  reconcileable. 
But  would  I  rather  you  discovered  that, 
Subjoining — "Still,  what  matter  tho'  they  be? 
Blougram  concerns  me  naught,  born  here  or  there." 

Pure  faith,  indeed?  you  know  not  what  you  ask! 
Naked  belief  in  God  the  Omnipotent, 
Omniscient,  Omnipresent,  sears  too  much 

The  sense  of  conscious  creatures  to  be  borne.  650 

It  were  the  seeing  Him,  no  flesh  shall  dare. 
Some  think,  Creation  's  meant  to  show  Him  forth : 
I  say  it 's  meant  to  hide  Him  all  it  can, 
And  that 's  what  all  theblessed  evil 's  for. 
Its  use  in"llTne  Ik  to  environ  us,  / 

Our  breath,  our  drop  of  dew,  with  shield  enough  / 
Against  that  sight  till  we  can  bear  its  stress. 
Under  a  vertical  sun,  the  exposed  brain 
And  lidless  eye  and  disemprisoned  heart 

Less  certainly  would  wither  up  at  once  660 

Than  mind,  confronted  with  the  truth  of  Him. 
But  time  and  earth  case-harden  us  to  live : 
The  feeblest  sense  is  trusted  most ;  the  child 
Feels  God  a  moment,  ichors  o'er  the  place, 
Plays  on  and  grows  to  be  a  man  like  us. 
With  me,  faith  means  perpetual  unbelief 


362  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Kept  quiet  like  the  snake  'neath  Michael's  foot 

Who  stands  calm  just  because  he  feels  it  writhe. 

Or,  if  that 's  too  ambitious,  —  here  's  my  box  — 

I  need  the  excitation  of  a  pinch  670 

Threatening  the  torpor  of  the  inside-nose 

Nigh  on  the  imminent  sneeze  that  never  comes. 

'•Leave  it  in  peace!"  advise  the  simple  folk : 

Make  it  aware  of  peace  by  itching-fits. 

Say  I — let  doubt  occasion  still  more  faith! 

You  '11  say,  once  all  believed,  man,  woman,  child, 
In  that  dear  middle-age  these  noodles  praise. 
How  you  'd  exult  if  I  could  put  you  back 
Six  hundred  years,  blot  out  cosmogony, 

Geology,  ethnology,  what  not,  680 

(Greek  endings,  each  the  little  passing-bell 
That  signifies  some  faith  's  about  to  die) 
And  set  you  square  with  Genesis  again,  — 
When  such  a  traveler  told  you  his  last  news, 
He  saw  the  ark  a-top  of  Ararat 
But  did  not  climb  there  since  't  was  getting  dusk 
And  robber-bands  infest  the  mountain's  foot! 
How  should  you  feel,  I  ask,  in  such  an  age, 
How  act  ?     As  other  people  felt  and  did ; 
WTith  soul  more  blank  than  this  decanter's  knob,  690 

Believe  —  and  yet  lie,  kill,  rob,  fornicate 
Full  in  belief's  face,  like  the  beast  you  'd  be! 

No,  when  the  fight  begins  within  himself, 
A  man  's  worth  something.    God  stoops  o'er  his  head, 
Satan  looks  up  between  his  feet  —  both  tug  — 
He 's  left,  himself,  i'  the  middle  :  the  soul  wakes 
And  grows.     Prolong  that  battle  thro'  his  life! 
Never  leave  growing  till  the  life  to  come ! 
Here  we  've  got  callous  to  the  Virgin's  winks 
That  used  to  puzzle  people  wholesomely :  700 

Men  have  outgrown  the  shame  of  being  fools. 
What  are  the  laws  of  nature,  not  to  bend 
If  the  Church  bid  them?  —  brother  Newman  asks. 
Up  with  the  Immaculate  Conception,  then  — 
On  to  the  rack  with  faith!  —  is  my  advice. 
Will  not  that  hurry  us  upon  our  knees, 
Knocking  our  breasts,  "It  can't  be  —  yet  it  shall! 
Who  am  I.  the  worm,  to  argue  with  my  Pope? 
Low  things  confound  the  high  things!"  and  so  forth. 
That 's  better  than  acquitting  God  with  grace,  710 

As  some  folk  do.      He  's  tried  —  no  case  is  proved, 
Philosophy  is  lenient  —  He  may  go ! 


I 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 


363 


You  '11  say,  the  old  system  's  not  so  obsolete 
But  men  believe  still :  ay,  but  who  and  where? 
King  Bomba's  lazzaroni  foster  yet 
The  sacred  flame,  so  Antonelli  writes ; 
But  even  of  these,  what  ragamuffin-saint 
Believes  God  watches  him  continually, 
As  he  believes  in  fire  that  it  will  burn, 

Or  rain  that  it  will  drench  him  ?     Break  fire's  law,  720 

Sin  against  rain,  altho'  the  penalty 
Be  just  a  singe  or  soaking?     "  No,"  he  smiles ; 
"  Those  laws  are  laws  that  can  enforce  themselves." 

The  sum  of  all  is  —  yes,  my  doubt  is  great,    /  / 
My  faith  still  greater,  then  my  faith  's  enough.  1  / 
I  have  read  much,  thought  much,  experienced  n(uch, 
Yet  would  die  rather  than  avow  my  fear 
The  Naples'  liquefaction  may  be  false, 
When  set  to  happen  by  the  palace-clock 

According  to  the  clouds  or  dinner-time.  730 

I  hear  you  recommend,  I  might  at  least 
Eliminate,  decrassify  my  faith 
Since  I  adopt  it ;  keeping  what  I  must 
And  leaving  what  I  can  —  such  points  as  this. 
I  won't  —  that  is,  I  can't  throw  one  away. 
Supposing  there  's  no  truth  in  what  I  hold 
About  the  need  of  trial  to  man's  faith, 
Still,  when  you  bid  me  purify  the  same, 
To  such  a  process  I  discern  no  end. 

Clearing  off  one  .excrescence  to  see  two,  740 

There  's  ever  a  next  in  size,  now  grown  as  big, 
That  meets  the  knife :  I  cut  and  cut  again! 
First  cut  the  Liquefaction,  what  comes  last 
But  Fichte's  clever  cut  at  God  himself? 
Experimentalize  on  sacred  things! 
I  trust  nor  hand  nor  eye  nor  heart  nor  brain 
To  stop  betimes  :  they  all  get  drunk  alike. 
The  first  step,  I  am  master  not  to  take. 

You  'd  find  the  cutting-process  to  your  taste 
As  much  as  leaving  growths  of  lies  unpruned,  750 

Nor  see  more  danger  in  it,  —  you  retort. 
Your  taste  's  worth  mine ;  but  my  taste  proves  more  wise 
When  we  consider  that  the  steadfast  hold 
On  the  extreme  end  of  the  chain  of  faith 
Gives  all  the  advantage,  makes  the  difference 
With  the  rough  purblind  mass  we  seek  to  rule : 
We  are  their  lords,  or  they  are  free  of  us, 
Just  as  we  tighten  or  relax  our  hold. 


364  BISHOP  BLOUGRAArS  APOLOGY. 

So,  other  matters  equal,  we'll  revert 

To  the  first  problem  —  which,  if  solved  my  way  760 

And  thrown  into  the  balance,  turns  the  scale  — 

How  we  may  lead  a  comfortable  life, 

How  suit  our  luggage  to  the  cabin's  size. 

Of  course  you  are  remarking  all  this  time 
How  narrowly  and  grossly  I  view  life, 
Respect  the  creature-comforts,  care  to  rule 
The  masses,  and  regard  complacently 
"The  cabin,"  in  our  old  phrase.     Well.  I  do. 
1  act  for,  talk  for,  live  for  this  world  now, 

As  this  world  prizes  action,  life  and  talk :  770 

No  prejudice  to  what  next  world  may  prove, 
Whose  new  laws  and  requirements,  my  best  pledge 
To  observe  then,  is  that  I  observe  these  now, 
Shall  do  hereafter  what  I  do  meanwhile. 
Let  us  concede  (gratuitously  though) 
Next  life  relieves  the  soul  of  body,  yields 
Pure  spiritual  enjoyment :  well,  my  friend, 
Why  lose  this  life  i1  the  meantime,  since  its  use 
May  be  to  make  the  next  life  more  intense? 

Do  you  know,  I  have  often  had  a  dream  780 

(Work  it  up  in  your  next  month's  article) 
Of  man's  poor  spirit  in  its  progress,  still 
Losing  true  life  for  ever  and  a  day 
Thro'  ever  trying  to  be  and  ever  being  — 
In  the  evolution  of  successive  spheres  — 
Before  its  actual  sphere  and  place  of  life, 
Halfway  into  the  next,  which  having  reached, 
It  shoots  with  corresponding  foolery 
Halfway  into  the  next  still,  on  and  off ! 

As  when  a  traveler,  bound  from  North  to  South,  790 

Scouts  fur  in  Russia ;  what 's  its  use  in  France  ? 
In  France  spurns  flannel ;  where  's  its  need  in  Spain  ? 
In  Spain  drops  cloth,  too  cumbrous  for  Algiers! 
Linen  goes  next,  and  last  the  skin  itself, 
A  superfluity  at  Timbuctoo. 
When,  thro1  his  journey,  was  the  fool  at  ease? 
I  'm  at  ease  now,  friend ;  worldly  in  this  world, 
1    I  take  and  like  its  way  of  life  ;  I  think 
My  brothers,  who  administer  the  means, 

Live  better  for  my  comfort  —  that 's  good  too ;  800 

And  God,  if  He  pronounce  upon  such  life, 
Approves  my  service,  which  is  better  still. 
If  He  keep  silence,  —  why,  for  you  or  me 
Or  that  brute  beast  pulled-up  in  to-day's  "  Times," 
What  odds  is  't,  save  to  ourselves,  what  life  we  lead  ? 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 


36* 


You  meet  me  at  this  issue  :  you  declare,  — 
All  special-pleading  done  with,  truth  is  truth, 
And  justifies  itself  by  undreamed  ways. 
You  don't  fear  but  it 's  better,  if  we  doubt, 

To  say  so,  act  up  to  our  truth  perceived  810 

However  feebly.     Do  then,  —  act  away! 
'T  is  there  I  'm  on  the  watch  for  you.     How  one  acts 
Is,  both  of  us  agree,  our  chief  concern  : 
And  how  you  '11  act  is  what  I  fain  would  see 
If,  like  the  candid  person  you  appear, 
You  dare  to  make  the  most  of  your  life's  scheme 
As  I  of  mine,  live  up  to  its  full  law 
Since  there  's  no  higher  law  that  counterchecks. 
Put  natural  religion  to  the  test 

You  've  just  demolished  the  revealed  with  —  quick,  820 

Down  to  the  root  of  all  that  checks  your  will, 
All  prohibition  to  lie,  kill  and  thieve 
Or  even  to  be  an  atheistic  priest! 
Suppose  a  pricking  to  incontinence  — 
Philosophers  deduce  you  chastity 
Or  shame,  from  just  the  fact  that  at  the  first 
Whoso  embraced  a  woman  in  the  field 
Threw  club  down  and  forewent  his  brains  beside, 
So,  stood  a  ready  victim  in  the  reach 

Of  any  brother-savage,  club  in  hand ;  830 

Hence  saw  the  use  of  going  out  of  sight 
In  wood  or  cave  to  prosecute  his  loves : 
I  read  this  in  a  French  book  t1  other  day. 
Does  law  so  analyzed  coerce  you  much  ? 
Oh,  men  spin  clouds  of  fuzz  where  matters  end, 
But  you  who  reach  where  the  first  thread  begins, 
You  '11  soon  cut  that !  —  which  means  you  can,  but  won't, 
Thro'  certain  instincts,  blind,  unreasoned-out, 
You  dare  not  set  aside,  you  can't  tell  why, 
But  there  they  are,  and  so  you  let  them  rule.  840 

Then,  friend,  you  seem  as  much  a  slave  as  I, 
A  liar,  conscious  coward  and  hypocrite, 
Without  the  good  the  slave  expects  to  get, 
In  case  he  has  a  master  after  all! 
You  own  your  instincts  ?  why,  what  else  do  I, 
Who  want,  am  made  for,  and  must  have  a  God 
Ere  I  can  be  aught,  dp  aught  ?  —  no  mere  name        , 
Want,  but  the  true  thing  with  what  proves  its  truth, 
To  wit,  a  relation  from  that  thing  to  me,  \ 

Touching  from  head  to  foot  —  which  touch  I  feel,  850 

And  with  it  take  the  rest,  this  life  of  ours! 
I  live  my  life  here  ;  yours  you  dare  not  live. 


366  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY. 

—  Not  as  I  state  it,  who  (you  please  subjoin) 
Disfigure  such  a  life  and  call  it  names, 
While,  to  your  mind,  remains  another  way 
For  simple  men :  knowledge  and  power  have  rights, 
But  ignorance  and  weakness  have  rights  too. 
There  needs  no  crucial  effort  to  find  truth 
If  here  or  there  or  anywhere  about : 

We  ought  to  turn  each  side,  try  hard  and  see,  860 

And  if  we  can't,  be  glad  we  've  earned  at  least 
The  right,  by  one  laborious  proof  the  more, 
To  graze  in  peace  earth's  pleasant  pasturage. 
.  Men  are  not  angels,  neither  are  they  brutes : 
Something  we  may  see,  all  we  can  not  see. 
What  need  of  lying?     I  say,  I  see  all, 
And  swear  to  each  detail  the  most  minute 
In  what  I  think  a  Pan's  face  —  you,  mere  cloud : 
I  swear  I  hear  him  speak  and  see  him  wink, 
For  fear,  if  once  I  drop  the  emphasis,  870 

Mankind  may  doubt  there  's  any  cloud  at  all. 
You  take  the  simple  life — ready  to  see. 
Willing  to  see  (for  no  cloud's  worth  a  face)  — 
And  leaving  quiet  what  no  strength  can  move, 
And  which,  who  bids  you  move?  who  has  the  right? 
I  bid  you ;  but  you  are  God's  sheep,  not  mine  : 
"Pastor  est  titi  Dammus"     You  find 
In  this  the  pleasant  pasture  of  our  life 
Much  you  may  eat  without  the  least  offence, 
Much  you  don't  eat  because  your  maw  objects,  880 

Much  you  would  eat  but  that  your  fellow-flock 
Open  great  eyes  at  you  and  even  butt, 
And  thereupon  you  like  your  mates  so  well 
You  can  not  please  yourself,  offending  them  ; 
Tho'  when  they  seem  exorbitantly  sheep, 
You  weigh  your  pleasure  with  their  butts  and  bleats 
And  strike  the  balance.     Sometimes  certain  fears 
Restrain  you,  real  checks  since  you  find  them  so ; 
Sometimes  you  please  yourself  and  nothing  checks : 
And  thus  you  graze  thro'  life  with  not  one  lie,  890 

And  like  it  best. 

But  do  you,  in  truth's  name? 
If  so,  you  beat — which  means  you  are  not  I  — 
Who  needs  must  make  earth  mine  and  feed  my  fill 
Not  simply  unbutted  at,  unbickered  with, 
But  motioned  to  the  velvet  of  the  sward 
By  those  obsequious  wethers'  very  selves. 
Look  at  me,  sir ;  my  age  is  double  yours : 
At  yours,  I  knew  beforehand,  so  enjoyed, 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM^S  APOLOGY.  367 

What  now  I  should  be  —  as,  permit  the  word, 

I  pretty  well  imagine  your  whole  range  900 

And  stretch  of  tether  twenty  years  to  come. 

We  both  have  minds  and  bodies  much  alike : 

In  truth's  name,  don't  you  want  my  bishopric, 

My  daily  bread,  my  influence  and  my  state  ? 

You  're  young.     I'm  old  ;  you  must  be  old  one  day ; 

Will  you  find  then,  as  I  do  hour  by  hour, 

Women  their  lovers  kneel  to,  who  cut  curls 

From  your  fat  lap-dog's  ear  to  grace  a  brooch  — 

Dukes,  who  petition  just  to  kiss  your  ring  — 

With  much  beside  you  know  or  may  conceive?  910 

Suppose  we  die  to-night :  well,  here  am  I, 

Such  were  my  gains,  life  bore  this  fruit  to  me, 

While  writing  all  the  same  my  articles 

On  music,  poetry,  the  fictile  vase 

Found  at  Albano,  chess,  Anacreon's  Greek.  ;  / 

But  you  —  the  highest  honour  in  your  life, 

The  thing  you  '11  crown  yourself  with,  all  your  days, 

Is  —  dining  here  and  drinking  this  last  glass 

I  pour  you  out  in  sign  of  amity 

Before  we  part  for  ever.     Of  your  power  I  920 

And  social  influence,  worldly  worth  in  short, 

Judge  what 's  my  estimation  by  the  fact  — 

I  do  not  condescend  to  enjoin,  beseech, 

Hint  secrecy  on  one  of  all  these  words! 

You  're  shrewd  and  know  that  should  you  publish  one 

The  world  would  brand  the  lie  —  my  enemies  first, 

Who  'd  sneer  —  u  the  bishop 's  an  arch-hypocrite 

And  knave  perhaps,  but  not  so  frank  a  fool." 

Whereas  I  should  not  dare  for  both  my  ears 

Breathe  one  such  syllable,  smile  one  such  smile,  930 

Before  the  chaplain  who  reflects  myself — 

My  shade  's  so  much  more  potent  than  your  flesh. 

What 's  your  reward,  self-abnegating  friend  ? 

Stood  you  confessed  of  those  exceptional 

And  privileged  great  natures  that  dwarf  mine  — 

A  zealot  with  a  mad  ideal  in  reach, 

A  poet  just  about  to  print  his  ode, 

A  statesman  with  a  scheme  to  stop  this  war, 

An  artist  whose  religion  is  his  art  — 

I  should  have  nothing  to  object :  such  men  940 

Carry  the  fire,  all  things  grow  warm  to  them, 

Their  drugget 's  worth  my  purple,  they  beat  me. 

But  you,  —  you  're  just  as  little  those  as  I  — 

You,  Gigadibs,  who,  thirty  years  of  age,  , 

Write  statedly  for  Blackwood's  Magazine, 

Believe  you  see  two  points  in  Hamlet's  soul 


368  BISHOP  BLOC/GRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Unseized  by  the  Germans  yet  —  which  view  you  '11  print  — 

Meantime  the  best  you  have  to  show  being  still 

That  lively  lightsome  article  we  took 

Almost  for  the  true  Dickens,  —  what 's  its  name?  950 

"  The  Slum  and  Cellar,  or  Whitechapel  life 

Limned  after  dark!"  it  made  me  laugh,  I  know. 

And  pleased  a  month,  a  :d  brought  you  in  ten  pounds. 

—  Success  I  recognize  a  \d  compliment, 

And  therefore  give  you,  if  you  choose,  three  words 

(The  card  and  pencil-scratch  is  quite  enough) 

Which  whether  here,  in  Dublin  or  New  York, 

Will  get  you,  prompt  as  at  my  eyebrow's  wink, . 

Such  terms  as  never  you  aspired  to  get 

In  all  our  own  reviews  and  some  not  ours.  960 

Go  write  your  lively  sketches!  be  the  first 

"  Blougram,  or  The  Eccentric  Confidence  "  — 

Or  better  simply  say,  "  The  Outward-bound." 

Why,  men  as  soon  would  throw  it  in  my  teeth 

As  copy  and  quote  the  infamy  chalked  broad 

About  me  on  the  church-door  opposite. 

You  will  not  wait  for  that  experience  though, 

I  fancy,  howsoever  you  decide, 

To  discontinue  —  not  detesting,  not 

Defaming,  but  at  least  —  despising  me!  970 


Over  his  wine  so  smiled  and  talked  his  hour 
Sylvester  Blougram,  styled  in  partibus 
Epi scopus,  nee  non —  (the  deuce  knows  what 
It 's  changed  to  by  our  novel  hierarchy) 
With  Gigadibs  the  literary  man, 
Who  played  with  spoons,  explored  his  plate's  design; 
And  ranged  the  olive-stones  about  its  edge, 
While  the  great  bishop  rolled  him  out  a  mind 
Long  crumpled,  till  creased  consciousness  lay  smooth. 

For  Blougram,  he  believed,  say,  half  he  spoke.  980 

The  other  portion,  as  he  shaped  it  thus 
For  argumentatory  purposes, 
He  felt  his  foe  was  foolish  to  dispute. 
Some  arbitrary  accidental  thoughts 
That  crossed  his  mind,  amusing  because  new, 
He  chose  to  represent  as  fixtures  there, 
Invariable  convictions  (such  they  seemed 
Beside  his  interlocutor's  loose  cards 
Flung  daily  down,  and  not  the  same  way  twice) 
While  certain  hell-deep  instincts,  man's  weak  tongue  990 

Is  never  bold  to  utter  in  their  truth 


MR.   SLUDGE,   « THE  MEDIUM." 


369 


Because  styled  hell-deep  ('t  is  an  old  mistake 

To  place  hell  at  the  bottom  of  the  earth) 

He  ignored  these, — not  having  in  readiness 

Their  nomenclature  and  philosophy : 

He  said  true  things,  but  called  them  by  wrong  names. 

"On  the  whole,"  he  thought,  "  I  justify  myself 

On  every  point  where  cavillers  like  this 

Oppugn  my  life  :  he  tries  one  kind  of  fence, 

I  close,  he  's  worsted,  that 's  enough  for  him.  looo 

He  's  on  the  ground  :  if  ground  should  break  away 

I  take  my  stand  on,  there  's  a  firmer  yet 

Beneath  it,  both  of  us  may  sink  and  reach. 

His  ground  was  over  mine  and  broke  the  first : 

So,  let  him  sit  with  me  this  many  a  year!" 

He  did  not  sit  five  minutes.    Just  a  week 
Sufficed  his  sudden  healthy  vehemence. 
Something  had  struck  him  in  the  "Outward-bound" 
Another  way  than  Blougram's  purpose  was : 
And  having  bought,  not  cabin-furniture  loio 

But  settler's-implements  (enough  for  three) 
And  started  for  Australia  —  there,  I  hope, 
By  this  time  he  has  tested  his  first  plough, 
And  studied  his  last  chapter  of  St.  John. 


MR.   SLUDGE,   "THE   MEDIUM." 

NOW,  don't,  sir!     Don't  expose  me!    Just  this  once! 
This  was  the  first  and  only  time,  I  '11  swear, — 
Look  at  me,  —  see,  I  kneel,  —  the  only  time, 
I  swear,  I  ever  cheated,  —  yes,  by  the  soul 
Of  Her  who  hears  —  (your  sainted  mother,  sir!) 
All,  except  this  last  accident,  was  truth  — 
This  little  kind  of  slip!  —  and  even  this, 
It  was  your  own  wine,  sir,  the  good  champagne, 
(I  took  it  for  Catawba,  you  're  so  kind) 
Which  put  the  folly  in  my  head! 

"Get  up?"  10 

You  still  inflict  on  me  that  terrible  face  ? 
You  show  no  mercy? — Not  for  Her  dear  sake, 
The  sainted  spirit's,  whose  soft  breath  even  now 
Blows  on  my  cheek  —  (don't  you  feel  something,  sir?) 
You  '11  telJ  ? 

2B 


370  MR.   SLUDGE,   "  THE  MEDIUM." 

Go  tell,  then!    Who  the  devil  cares 
What  such  a  rowdy  chooses  to  ... 

Aie  —  aie — aie! 

Please,  sir!  your  thumbs  are  thro'  my  windpipe,  sir! 
Ch  —  ch! 

Well,  sir,  I  hope  you  've  done  it  now 
Oh  Lord!     I  little  thought,  sir,  yesterday, 

When  your  departed  mother  spoke  those  words  20 

Of  peace  thro1  me,  and  moved  you,  sir,  so  much, 
You  gave  me  —  (very  kind  it  was  of  you) 
These  shirt-studs  —  (better  take  them  back  again, 
Please,  sir)  — yes,  little  did  I  think  so  soon 
A  trifle  of  trick,  all  thro'  a  glass  too  much 
Of  his  own  champagne,  would  change  my  best  of  friends 
Into  an  angry  gentleman! 

Though,  't  was  wrong. 

I  don't  contest  the  point ;  your  anger 's  just : 
Whatever  put  such  folly  in  my  head, 

I  know  't  was  wicked  of  me.     There  's  a  thick  30 

Dusk  undeveloped  spirit  (I  've  observed) 
Owes  me  a  grudge  —  a  negro's,  I  should  say, 
Or  else  an  Irish  emigrant's  ;  yourself 
Explained  the  case  so  well  last  Sunday,  sir, 
When  we  had  summoned  Franklin  to  clear  up 
A  point  about  those  shares  i'  the  telegraph  : 
Ay,  and  he  swore  .  .  or  might  it  be  Tom  Paine?  . 
Thumping  the  table  close  by  where  I  crouched, 
He  'd  do  me  soon  a  mischief:  that 's  come  true! 
Why,  now  your  face  clears!     I  was  sure  it  would!  40 

Then,  this  one  time  .  .  don't  take  your  hand  away, 
Thro'  yours  I  surely  kiss  your  mother's  hand  .  . 
You  '11  promise  to  forgive  me  ?  —  or,  at  least, 
Tell  nobody  of  this?     Consider,  sir! 
What  harm  can  mercy  do?     Would  but  the  shade 
Of  the  venerable  dead-one  just  vouchsafe 
A  rap  or  tip!     What  bit  of  paper's  here? 
Suppose  we  take  a  pencil,  let  her  write, 
Make  the  least  sign,  she  urges  on  her  child 
Forgiveness?     There  now!     Eh?     Oh!     'T  was  your  foot,       50 
And  not  a  natural  creak,  sir? 

Answer,  then! 

Once,  twice,  thrice  .  .  .  see,  I  'm  waiting  to  say  "  thrice  ! " 
All  to  no  use?     No  sort  of  hope  for  me? 
It's  all  to  post  to  Greeley's  newspaper? 


MR,  SLUDGE,   «  THE  MEDIUM."  37 1 

What?     If  I  told  you  all  about  the  tricks? 

Upon  my  soul!  — the  whole  truth,  and  naught  else, 

And  how  there  's  been  some  falsehood  —  for  your  part, 

Will  you  engage  to  pay  my  passage  out, 

And  hold  your  tongue  until  I  'm  safe  on  board? 

England  's  the  place,  not  Boston  —  no  offence!  60 

I  see  what  makes  you  hesitate :  don't  fear! 

I  mean  to  change  my  trade  and  cheat  no  more, 

Yes.  this  time  really  it 's  upon  my  soul! 

Be  my  salvation! — under  Heaven,  of  course. 

I  '11  tell  some  queer  things.     Sixty  V's  must  do. 

A  trifle,  though,  to  start  with !     We  '11  refer 

The  question  to  this  table  ? 

How  you  're  changed! 

Then  split  the  difference ;  thirty  more,  we  '11  say. 
Ay,  but  you  leave  my  presents!     Else  I  '11  swear 
'T  was  all  thro'  those  :•  you  wanted  yours  again,  70 

So,  picked  a  quarrel  with  me,  to  get  them  back! 
Tread  on  a  worm,  it  turns,  sir!     If  I  turn, 
Your  fault!     'T  is  you  '11  have  forced  me!     Who 's  obliged 
To  give  up  life  yet  try  no  self-defence? 
At  all  events,  I  '11  run  the  risk.    Eh  ? 

Done! 

May  I  sit,  sir?     This  dear  old  table,  now! 
Please,  sir,  a  parting  egg-nogg  and  cigar! 
I  've  been  so  happy  with  you!     Nice  stuffed  chairs, 
And  sympathetic  sideboards  ;  what  an  end 
To  all  the  instructive  evenings!     (It 's  alight.)  80 

Well,  nothing  lasts,  as  Bacon  came  and  said. 
Here  goes,  —  but  keep  your  temper,  or  I  '11  scream! 

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol! 

You  see,  sir,  it 's  your  own  fault  more  than  mine ; 

It 's  all  your  fault,  you  curious  gentlefolk ! 

You  're  prigs,  —  excuse  me,  —  like  to  look  so  spry 

So  clever,  while  you  cling  by  half  a  claw 

To  the  perch  whereon  you  puff  yourselves  at  roost, 

Such  piece  of  self-conceit  as  serves  for  perch 

Because  you  chose  it,  so  it  must  be  safe.  90 

Oh,  otherwise  you  're  sharp  enough!     You  spy 

Who  slips,  who  slides,  who  holds  by  help  of  wing, 

Wanting  real  foothold,  —  who  can't  keep  upright 

On  the  other  perch,  your  neighbour  chose,  not  you: 

There  's  no  outwitting  you  respecting  him! 

For  instance,  men  love  money  —  that,  you  know— 


372  MR.   SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM? 

And  what  men  do  to  gain  it :  well,  suppose 

A  poor  lad,  say  a  help's  son  in  your  house, 

Listening  at  keyholes,  hears  the  company 

Talk  grand  of  dollars,  V-notes,  and  so  forth,  100 

How  hard  they  are  to  get,  how  good  to  hold, 

How  much  they  buy,  —  if,  suddenly,  in  pops  he  — 

"/'ve  got  a  V-note!"  —  what  do  you  say  to  him? 

What 's  your  first  word  which  follows  your  last  kick  ? 

"  Where  did  you  steal  it,  rascal  ? "     That 's  because 

He  finds  you,  fain  would  fool  you,  off  your  perch, 

Not  on  the  special  piece  of  nonsense,  sir, 

Elected  your  parade-ground  :  let  him  try 

Lies  to  the  end  of  the  list, —  "  He  picked  it  up. 

His  cousin  died  and  left  it  him  by  will,  no 

The  President  flung  it  to  him,  riding  by, 

An  actress  trucked  it  for  a  curl  of  his  hair, 

He  dreamed  of  luck  and  found  his  shoe  enriched, 

He  dug  up  clay,  and  out  of  clay  made  gold"  — 

How  would  you  treat  such  possibilities? 

Would  not  you,  prompt,  investigate  the  case 

With  cow-hide  ?     "  Lies,  lies,  lies,"  you  'd  shout :  and 

why? 

Which  of  the  stories  might  not  prove  mere  truth  ? 
This  last,  perhaps,  that  clay  was  turned  to  coin! 
Let 's  see,  now,  give  him  me  to  speak  for  him!  1 20 

How  many  of  your  rare  philosophers, 
In  plaguy  books  I  Ve  had  to  dip  into, 
Believed  gold  could  be  made  thus,  saw  it  made 
And  made  it?     Oh,  with  such  philosophers 
You  Ve  on  your  best  behaviour!     While  the  lad — 
With  him,  in  a  trice,  you  settle  likelihoods, 
Nor  doubt  a  moment  how  he  got  his  prize  : 
In  his  case,  you  hear,  judge  and  execute, 
All  in  a  breath  :  so  would  most  men  of  sense. 

But  let  the  same  lad  hear  you  talk  as  grand  130 

At  the  same  keyhole,  you  and  company, 

Of  signs  and  wonders,  the  invisible  world ; 

How  wisdom  scouts  our  vulgar  unbelief 

More  than  our  vulgarest  credulity ; 

How  good  men  have  desired  to  see  a  ghost, 

What  Johnson  used  to  say,  what  Wesley  did, 

Mother  Goose  thought,  and  fiddle-didclle-dee  :  — 

If  he  break  in  with,  "  Sir,  /  saw  a  ghost! " 

Ah,  the  ways  change!     He  finds  you  perched  and  prim  • 

It 's  a  conceit  of  yours  that  ghosts  may  be :  i^o 

There's  no  talk  now  of  cow-hide.     "Tell  it  out! 

Don't  fear  us!     Take  your  time  and  recollect! 


MR,  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 


373 


Sit  down  first ;  try  a  glass  of  wine,  my  boy ! 

And,  David,  (is  not  that  your  Christian  name?) 

Of  all  things,  should  this  happen  twice  —  it  may  — 

Be  sure,  while  fresh  in  mind,  you  let  us  know!" 

Does  the  boy  blunder,  blurt  out  this,  blab  that, 

Break  down  in  the  other,  as  beginners  will  ? 

All's  candour,  all's  considerateness  —  "No  haste! 

Pause  and  collect  yourself !     We  understand !  150 

That 's  the  bad  memory,  or  the  natural  shock, 

Or  the  unexplained  phenomena ! " 


Egad, 

The  boy  take*  heart  of  grace ;  finds,  never  fear, 
The  readiest  way  to  ope  your  own  heart  wide, 
Show  —  what  I  call  your  peacock-perch,  pet  post 
To  strut,  and  spread  the  tail,  and  squawk  upon! 
"  Just  as  you  thought,  much  as  you  might  expect! 
There  be  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,"  .  . 
And  so  on.     Shall  not  David  take  the  hint, 
Grow  bolder,  stroke  you  down  at  quickened  rate?  1 60 

If  he  ruffle  a  feather,  it's  "  Gently,  patiently! 
Manifestations  are  so  weak  at  first ! 
Doubting,  moreover,  kills  them,  cuts  all  short, 
Cures  with  a  vengeance ! " 


There,  sir,  that 's  your  style ! 

You  and  your  boy  —  such  pains  bestowed  on  him, 
Or  any  headpiece  of  the  average  worth, 
To  teach,  say,  Greek,  would  perfect  him  apace, 
Make  him  a  Person  ("  Person? "  thank  you,  sir!) 
Much  more,  proficient  in  the  art  of  lies. 

You  never  leave  the  lesson !     Fire  alight,  170 

Catch  you  permitting  it  to  die !     You  've  friends  ; 
There's  no  withholding  knowledge,  —  least  from  those 
Apt  to  look  elsewhere  for  their  souls'  supply : 
Why  should  not  you  parade  your  lawful  prize  ? 
Who  finds  a  picture,  digs  a  medal  up, 
Hits  on  a  first  edition,  —  he  henceforth 
Gives  it  his  name,  grows  notable :  how  much  more 
Who  ferrets  out  a  "  medium  "?     "  David  's  yours, 
You  highly-favoured  man?     Then,  pity  souls 
Less  privileged!     Allow  us  share  your  luck! "  1 80 

So,  David  holds  the  circle,  rules  the  roast, 
Narrates  the  vision,  peeps  in  the  glass  ball, 
Sets-to  the  spirit-writing,  hears  the  raps, 
As  the  case  may  be. 


374  MR-  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

Now  mark!     To  be  precise — 
Tho'  I  say,  "  lies  "  all  these,  at  this  first  stage, 
'T  is  just  for  science"  sake :  I  call  such  grubs 
By  the  name  of  what  they  "11  turn  to,  dragonflies. 
Strictly,  it  "s  what  good  people  style  untruth ; 
But  yet,  so  far,  not  quite  the  full-grown  thing : 
It's  fancying,  fable-making,  nonsense-work —  190 

What  never  meant  to  be  so  very  bad — 
The  knack  of  story-telling,  brightening  up 
Each  dull  old  bit  of  fact  that  drops  its  shine. 
One  does  see  somewhat  when  one  shuts  one's  eyes, 
If  only  spots  and  streaks ;  tables  do  tip 
In  the  oddest  way  of  themselves :  and  pens,  good  Lord, 
Who  knows  if  you  drive  them  or  they  drive  you? 
T  is  but  a  foot  in  the  water  and  out  again ; 
Not  that  duck-under  which  decides  your  dive. 
Note  this,  for  it 's  important :  listen  why.  200 

I  ?11  prove,  you  push  on  David  till  he  dives 

And  ends  the  shivering.     Here  's  your  circle,  now : 

Two-thirds  of  them,  with  heads  like  you  their  host, 

Turn  up  their  eyes,  and  cry,  as  you  expect, 

"  Lord,  who 'd  have  thought  it! "     But  there  s  always  one 

Looks  wise,  compassionately  smiles,  submits 

"  Of  your  veracity  no  kind  of  doubt, 

But  —  do  you  feel  so  certain  of  that  boy's? 

Really,  I  wonder!     I  confess  myself 

More  chary  of  my  faith!"    That  "s  galling,  sir!  210 

What,  he  the  investigator,  he  the  sage. 

When  all  "s  done  ?     Then,  you  just  have  shut  your  eyes, 

Opened  your  mouth,  and  gulped  down  David  whole, 

You!     Terrible  were  such  catastrophe! 

So,  evidence  is  redoubled,  doubled  again, 

And  doubled  besides ;  once  more,  "  He  heard,  we  heard, 

You  and  they  heard,  your  mother  and  your  wife. 

Your  children  and  the  stranger  in  your  gates : 

Did  they  or  did  they  not?"     So  much  for  him. 

The  black  sheep,  guest  without  the  wedding-garb.  220 

The  doubting  Thomas!     Now 's  your  turn  to  crow  : 

"  He  "s  kind  to  think  you  such  a  fool :  Sludge  cheats  ? 

Leave  you  alone  to  take  precautions!" 

Straight 

The  rest  join  chorus.     Thomas  stands  abashed, 
Sips  silent  some  such  beverage  as  this, 
Considers  if  it  be  harder,  shutting  eyes 
And  gulping  David  in  good  fellowship. 
Than  going  elsewhere,  getting,  in  exchange, 


MR.  SLUDGE,  "THE  MEDIUM."  375 

With  no  egg-nogg  to  lubricate  the  food, 

Some  just  as  tough  a  morsel.     Over  the  way,  230 

Holds  Captain  Sparks  his  court :  is  it  better  there? 

Have  not  you  hunting-stories,  scalping-scenes, 

And  Mexican  War  exploits  to  swallow  plump 

If  you  "d  be  free  o'  the  stove-side,  rocking-chair, 

And  trio  of  affable  daughters  ? 

Doubt  succumbs! 

Victory!     All  your  circle's  yours  again! 
Out  of  the  clubbing  of  submissive  wits, 
David's  performance  rounds,  each  chink  gets  patched, 
Every  protrusion  of  a  point 's  filed  fine, 

All  "s  fit  to  set  a-rolling  round  the  world,  240 

And  then  return  to  David  finally, 
Lies  seven-feet  thick  about  his  first  half-inch. 
Here 's  a  choice  birth  o'  the  supernatural. 
Poor  David  's  pledged  to!     You  've  employed  no  tool 
That  laws  exclaim  at,  save  the  devil's  own, 
Yet  screwed  him  into  henceforth  gulling  you 
To  the  top  o'  your  bent,  —  all  out  of  one  half-lie! 

You  hold,  if  there 's  one  half  or  a  hundredth  part 

Of  a  lie,  that 's  his  fault,  —  his  be  the  penalty! 

I  dare  say!     You  'd  prove  firmer  in  his  place?  250 

You  'd  find  the  courage,  —  that  first  flurry  over, 

That  mild  bit  of  romancing-work  at  end, — 

To  interpose  with  *•  It  gets  serious,  this ; 

Must  stop  here.     Sir,  I  saw  no  ghost  at  all. 

Inform  your  friends  I  made  .  .  well,  fools  of  them, 

And  found  you  ready  made.     I  Ve  lived  in  clover 

These  three  weeks  :  take  it  out  in  kicks  of  me !  " 

I  doubt  it.     Ask  your  conscience!     Let  me  know, 

Twelve  months  hence,  with  how  few  embellishments 

You  've  told  almighty  Boston  of  this  passage  260 

Of  arms  between  us,  your  first  taste  o"  the  foil 

From  Sludge  who  could  not  fence,  sir!     Sludge,  your  boy! 

I  lied,  sir,  —  there!     I  got  up  from  my  gorge 

On  offal  in  the  gutter,  and  preferred 

Your  canvas-backs  :  I  took  their  carver's  size, 

Measured  his  modicum  of  intelligence, 

Tickled  him  on  the  cockles  of  his  heart 

With  a  raven  feather,  and  next  week  found  myself 

Sweet  and  clean,  dining  daintily,  dizened  smart, 

Set  on  a  stool  buttressed  by  ladies1  knees,  270 

Every  soft  smiler  calling  me  her  pet, 

Encouraging  my  story  to  uncoil 

And  creep  out  from  its  hole,  inch  after  inch, 


376  MR.   SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

"  How  last  night,  I  no  sooner  snug  in  bed, 

Tucked  up,  just  as  they  left  me,  —  than  came  raps ! 

While  a  light  whisked  "  .  .  "  Shaped  somewhat  like  a  star?" 

"Well,  like  some  sort  of  stars,  ma'am,"  —  "So  we  thought! 

And  any  voice  ?     Not  yet  ?     Try  hard,  next  time, 

If  you  can't  hear  a  voice  ;  we  think  you  may ; 

At  least,  the  Pennsylvanian  'mediums  '  did."  280 

Oh,  next  time  comes  the  voice!     "Just  as  we  hoped! " 

Are  not  the  hopers  proud  now,  pleased,  profuse 

O'  the  natural  acknowledgment? 

Of  course! 

So,  off  we  push,  illy-oh-yo,  trim  the  boat, 
On  we  sweep  with  a  cataract  ahead, 
We  're  midway  to  the  Horse-shoe  :  stop,  who  can, 
The  dance  of  bubbles  gay  about  our  prow ! 
Experiences  become  worth  waiting  for, 
Spirits  now  speak  up,  tell  their  inmost  mind, 
And  compliment  the  "  medium  "  properly,  290 

Concern  themselves  about  his  Sunday  coat, 
See  rings  on  his  hand  with  pleasure.     Ask  yourself 
How  you  'd  receive  a  course  of  treats  like  these! 
Why,  take  the  quietest  hack  and  stall  him  up, 
Cram  him  with  corn  a  month,  then  out  with  him 
Among  his  mates  on  a  bright  April  morn, 
With  the  turf  to  tread  ;  see  if  you  find  or  no 
A  caper  in  him,  if  he  bucks  or  bolts! 
Much  more  a  youth  whose  fancies  sprout  as  rank 
As  toadstool-clump  from  melon-bed.     'T  is  soon,  300 

"  Sirrah,  you  spirit,  come,  go,  fetch  and  carry, 
Read,  write,  rap,  rub-a-dub,  and  hang  yourself!  " 
I  'm  spared  all  further  trouble  ;  all 's  arranged ; 
Your  circle  does  my  business  ;  I  may  rave 
Like  an  epileptic  dervish  in  the  books, 
Foam,  fling  myself  flat,  rend  my  clothes  to  shreds  ; 
No  matter :  lovers,  friends  and  countrymen 
Will  lay  down  spiritual  laws,  read  wrong  things  right 
By  the  rule  o'  reverse.     If  Francis  Verulam 
Styles  himself  Bacon,  spells  the  name  beside  310 

With  a/  and  a  k,  says  he  drew  breath  in  York, 
Gave  up  the  ghost  in  Wales  when  Cromwell  reigned, 
(As,  sir.  we  somewhat  fear  he  was  apt  to  say, 
Before  I  found  the  useful  book  that  knows) 
Why,  what  harm  's  done?     The  circle  smiles  apace, 
"  It  was  not  Bacon,  after  all,  you  see ! 
We  understand  ;  the  trick  's  but  natural : 
Such  spirits'  individuality 
Is  hard  to  put  in  evidence  :  they  incline 


MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

To  gibe  and  jeer,  these  undeveloped  sorts.  320 

You  see,  their  world  's  much  like  a  jail  broke  loose, 

While  this  of  ours  remains  shut,  bolted,  barred, 

With  a  single  window  to  it.     Sludge,  our  friend, 

Serves  as  this  window,  whether  thin  or  thick, 

Or  stained  or  stainless  ;  he  's  the  medium-pane 

Thro'  which,  to  see  us  and  be  seen,  they  peep : 

They  crowd  each  other,  hustle  for  a  chance, 

Tread  on  their  neighbour's  kibes,  play  tricks  enough! 

Does  Bacon,  tired  of  waiting  swerve  aside? 

Up  in  his  place  jumps  Barnum  — '  I  'm  your  man,  330 

1 11  answer  you  for  Bacon! '     Try  o  ce  m     >!" 

Or  else  it 's  —  "  What 's  a  '  medium  ? '     He  's  a  means, 

Good,  bad,  indifferent,  still  the  only  means 

Spirits  can  speak  by ;  he  may  misconceive, 

Stutter  and  stammer,  —  he  's  their  Sludge  and  drudge, 

Take  him  or  leave  him  ;  they  must  hold  their  peace, 

Or  else,  put  up  with  having  knowledge  strained 

To  half-expression  thro'  his  ignorance. 

Suppose,  the  spirit  Beethoven  wants  to  shed 

New  music  he  's  brimful  of;  why,  he  turns  340 

The  handle  of  this  organ,  grinds  with  Sludge, 

And  what  he  poured  in  at  the  mouth  o1  the  mill 

As  a  Thirty-third  Sonata,  (fancy  now!) 

Comes  from  the  hopper  as  brand-new  Sludge,  naught  else, 

The  Shakers1  Hymn  in  G,  with  a  natural  F, 

Or  the  '  Stars  and  Stripes '  set  to  consecutive  fourths." 

Sir,  where  's  the  scrape  you  did  not  help  me  through, 

You  that  are  wise?     And  for  the  fools,  the  folk 

Who  came  to  see,  —  the  guests,  (observe  that  word!) 

Pray  do  you  find  guests  criticize  your  wine,  350 

Your  furniture,  your  grammar,  or  your  nose? 

Then,  why  your  "  medium  ? "     What 's  the  difference  ? 

Prove  your  madeira  red-ink  and  gamboge,  — 

Your  Sludge,  a  cheat  —  then  somebody  's  a  goose 

For  vaunting  both  as  genuine.     "  Guests! "    Don't  fear! 

They  '11  make  a  wry  facq,  nor  too  much  of  that. 

And  leave  you  in  your  glory. 

"  No,  sometimes 

They  doubt  and  say  as  much! "     Ay,  doubt  they  do! 
And  what  's  the  consequence?     "  Of  course  they  doubt  "- 
(You  triumph)  "  that  explains  the  hitch  at  once!  360 

Doubt  posed  our  ;  medium,'  puddled  his  pure  mind ; 
He  gave  them  back  their  rubbish  :  pitch  chaff  in. 
Could  flour  come  out  o'  the  honest  mill  ? "     So,  prompt 


378  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

Applaud  the  faithful :  cases  flock  in  point, 

"  How,  when  a  mocker  willed  a  '  medium '  once 

Should  name  a  spirit  James  whose  name  was  George, 

'  James '  cried  the  '  medium '  —  't  was  the  test  of  truth  ! " 

In  short,  a  hit  proves  much,  a  miss  proves  more. 

Does  this  convince  ?     The  better :  does  it  -fail  ? 

Time  for  the  double-shotted  broadside,  then  —  370 

The  grand  means,  last  resource.     Look  black  and  big! 

"You  style  us  idiots,  therefore  —  why  stop  short? 

Accomplices  in  rascality :  this  we  hear 

In  our  own  house,  from  our  invited  guest 

Found  brave  enough  to  outrage  a  poor  boy 

Exposed  by  our  good  faith!     Have  you  been  heard? 

Now,  then,  hear  us  ;  one  man  's  not  quite  worth  twelve. 

You  see  a  cheat?     Here  's  some  twelve  see  an  ass: 

Excuse  me  if  I  calculate  :  good  day ! " 

Out  slinks  the  sceptic,  all  the  laughs  explode,  380 

Sludge  waves  his  hat  in  triumph! 

Or — he  don't. 

There  's  something  in  real  truth  (explain  who  can!) 
One  casts  a  wistful  eye  at,  like  the  horse 
Who  mopes  beneath  stuffed  hay-racks  and  won't  munch 
Because  he  spies  a  corn-bag :  hang  that  truth, 
It  spoils  all  dainties  proffered  in  its  place! 
I  've  felt  at  times  when,  cockered,  cossetted 
And  coddled  by  the  aforesaid  company, 
Bidden  enjoy  their  bullying,  —  never  fear, 

But  o'er  their  shoulders  spit  at  the  flying  man, —  390 

I  Ve  felt  a  child  ;  only,  a  fractious  child 
That,  dandled  soft  by  nurse,  aunt,  grandmother, 
Who  keep  him  from  the  kennel,  sun  and  wind, 
Good  fun  and  wholesome  mud,-  —  enjoined  be  sweet, 
And  comely  and  superior,  —  eyes  askance 
The  ragged  sons  o'  the  gutter  at  their  game, 
Fain  would  be  down  with  them  \"  the  thick  o'  the  filth, 
Making  dirt-pies,  laughing  free,  speaking  plain. 
And  calling  granny  the  gray  old  cat  she  is. 
I  've  felt  a  spite,  I  say,  at  you,  at  them,  400 

Huggings  and  humbug  —  gnashed  my  teeth  to  mark 
A  decent  dog  pass!     It 's  too  bad,  I  say, 
Ruining  a  soul  so! 

But  what 's  "so,"  what 's  fixed, 

Where  may  one  stop?     Nowhere!     The  cheating 's  nursed 
Out  of  the  lying,  softly  and  surely  spun 
To  just  your  length,  sir!     I  'd  stop  soon  enough  : 
But  you  're  for  progress.     "  All  old,  nothing  new? 


MR.   SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM."  379 

Only  the  wsual  talking  thro'  the  mouth, 

Or  writing  by  the  hand?     I  own,  I  thought 

This  would  develop,  grow  demonstrable,  410 

Make  doubt  absurd,  give  figures  we  might  see, 

Flowers  we  might  touch.     There  's  no  one  doubts  you,  Sludge! 

You  dream  the  dreams,  you  see  the  spiritual  sights, 

The  speeches  come  in  your  head,  beyond  dispute. 

Still,  for  the  sceptics'  sake,  to  stop  all  mouths, 

We  want  some  outward  manifestation !  —  well, 

The  Pennsylvanians  gained  such  ;  why  not  Sludge? 

He  may  improve  with  time!" 

Ay,  that  he  may! 

He  sees  his  lot :  there 's  no  avoiding  fate. 

'T  is  a  trifle  at  first.     "  Eh,  David?     Did  you  hear?  420 

You  jogged  the  table,  your  foot  caused  the  squeak, 
This  time  you  're  ...  joking,  are  you  not,  my  boy  ? " 
"N-n-no!"  —  and  I  'm  done  for,  bought  and  sold  henceforth. 
The  old  good  easy  jog-trot  way,  the  .  .  .  eh  ? 
The  .   .  .  n  t  so  very  false,  as  falsehood  goes, 
The  spinning  out  and  drawing  fine,  you  know, — 
Really  mere  novel-writing  of  a  sort, 
Acting,  or  improvising,  make  believe, 
Surely  not  downright  cheatery,  —  any  how, 
'T  is  done  with  and  my  lot  cast ;  Cheat 's  my  name :  430 

The  fatal  dash  of  brandy  in  your  tea 
Has  settled  what  you  '11  have  the  souchong's  smack : 
The  caddy  gives  way  to  the  dram-bottle. 

Then,  it's  so  cruel  easy!     Oh,  those  tricks 

That  can't  be  tricks,  those  feats  by  sleight  of  hand, 

Clearly  no  common  conjuror's !  —  no,  indeed ! 

A  conjuror?     Choose  me  any  craft  i'  the  world 

A  man  puts  hand  to ;  and  with  six  months'  pains 

I  '11  play  you  twenty  tricks  miraculous 

To  people  untaught  the  trade.     Have  you  seen  glass  blown,  440 

Pipes  pierced?     Why,  just  this  biscuit  that  I  chip, 

Did  you  ever  watch  a  baker  toss  one  flat 

To  the  oven?     Try  and  do  it!     Take  my  word, 

Practise  but  half  as  much,  while  limbs  are  lithe, 

To  turn,  shove,  tilt  a  table,  crack  your  joints, 

Manage  your  feet,  dispose  your  hands  aright, 

Work  wires  that  twitch  the  curtains,  play  the  glove 

At  end  o'  your  slipper,  —  then  put  out  the  lights 

And  .  .  .  there,  there,  all  you  want  you  '11  get,  I  hope ! 

I  found  it  slip,  easy  as  an  old  shoe.  450 


380  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

Now,  lights  en  table  again!     I  Ve  done  my  part, 

You  take  my  place  while  I  give  thanks  and  rest. 

"Well,  Judge  Humgruffin,  what  's  your  verdict,  sir? 

You,  hardest  head  in  the  United  States.  — 

Did  you  detect  a  cheat  here?     Wait!     Let 's  see! 

Just  an  experiment  first,  for  candour's  sake! 

I  '11  try  and  cheat  you,  Judge!     The  table  tilts  : 

Is  it  I  that  move  it  ?     Write !     I  '11  press  your  hand : 

Cry  when  I  push,  or  guide  your  pencil,  Judge!'' 

Sludge  still  triumphant!     "That  a  rap,  indeed?  460 

That,  the  real  writing?     Very  like  a  whale! 

Then,  if,  sir,  you  —  a  most  distinguished  man, 

And,  were  the  Judge  not  here,  I  'd.  say,  .   .  no  matter! 

Well,  sir,  if  you  fail,  you  can't  take  us  in,  — 

There  's  little  fear  that  Sludge  will!" 

Won't  he  ma'am  ? 

But  what  if  our  distinguished  host,  like  Sludge, 
Bade  God  bear  witness  that  he  played  no  trick, 
While  you  believed  that  what  produced  the  raps 
Was  just  a  certain  child  who  died,  you  know, 
And  whose  last  breath  you  thought  your  lips  had  felt  ?  470 

Eh  ?     That  's  a  capital  point,  ma'am  :  Sludge  begins 
At  your  entreaty  with  your  dearest  dead, 
The  little  voice  set  lisping  once  again, 
The  tiny  hand  made  feel  for  yours  once  more, 
The  poor  lost  image  brought  back,  plain  as  dreams, 
Which  image,  if  a  word  had  chanced  recall, 
The  customary  cloud  would  cross  your  eyes, 
Your  heart  return  the  old  tick,  pay  its  pang! 
A  right  mood  for  investigation,  this! 

One  's  at  one's  ease  with  Saul  and  Jonathan,  480 

Pompey  and  Caesar :  but  one's  own  lost  child  .  .  . 
I  wonder,  when  you  heard  the  first  clod  drop 
From  the  spadeful  at  the  grave-side,  felt  you  free 
To  investigate  who  twitched  your  funeral  scarf 
Or  brushed  your  flounces  ?     Then,  it  came  of  course 
You  should  be  stunned  and  stupid;  then,  (how  else?) 
Your  breath  stopped  with  your  blood,  your  brain  struck  work. 
But  now,  such  causes  fail  of  such  effects, 
All 's  changed,  —  the  little  voice  begins  afresh, 
Yet  you,  calm,  consequent,  can  test  and  try,  490 

And  touch  the  truth.     '•  Tests?     Did  n't  the  creature  tell 
Its  nurse's  name,  and  say  it  lived  six  years, 
And  rode  a  rocking-horse?     Enough  of  tests! 
Sludge  never  could  learn  that!  " 

He  could  not,  eh? 
You  compliment  him.     "Could  not?  "     Speak  for  yourself! 


MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM: 


38l 


I  'd  like  to  know  the  man  I  ever  saw 

Once,  — never  mind  where,  how,  why,  when,  — once  saw, 

Of  whom  I  do  not  keep  some  matter  in  mind 

He  'd  swear  I  "  could  not  "  know,  sagacious  soul! 

What?     Do  you  live  in  this  world's  blow  of  blacks,  coo 

Palaver,  gossipry,  a  single  hour 

Nor  find  one  smut  has  settled  on  your  nose, 

Of  a  smut's  worth,  no  more,  no  less?  —  one  fact 

Out  of  the  drift  of  facts,  whereby  you  learn 

What  someone  was,  somewhere,  somewhen,  somewhy? 

You  don't  tell  folk—" See  what  has  stuck  to  me! 

Judge  Humgruffin,  our  most  distinguished  man, 

Your  uncle  was  a  tailor,  and  your  wife 

Thought  to  have  married  Miggs,  missed  him,  hit  you! "  — 

Do  you,  sir,  tho'  you  see  him  twice  a-week?  510 

"  No,"  you  reply,  "  what  use  retailing  it  ? 

Why  should  I  ?  "     But,  you  see,  one  day  you  should, 

Because  one  day  there  's  much  use,  —  when  this  fact 

Brings  you  the  Judge  upon  both  gouty  knees 

Before  the  supernatural ;  proves  that  Sludge 

Knows,  as  you  say,  a  thing  he  "  could  not "  know : 

Will  not  Sludge  thenceforth  keep  an  outstretched  face 

The  way  the  wind  drives  ? 

"  Could  not! "     Look  you  now, 
I  '11  tell  you  a  story!     There  's  a  whiskered  chap, 
A  foreigner,  that  teaches  music  here  520 

And  gets  his  bread, — knowing  no  better  way. 
He  says,  the  fellow  who  informed  of  him 
And  made  him  fly  his  country  and  fall  West, 
Was  a  hunchback  cobbler,  sat,  stitched  soles  and  sang, 
In  some  outlandish  place,  the  city  Rome, 
In  a  cellar  by  their  Broadway,  all  day  long ; 
Never  asked  questions,  stopped  to  listen  or  look, 
Nor  lifted  nose  from  lapstone  ;  let  the  world 
Roll  round  his  three-legged  stool,  and  news  run  in 
The  ears  he  hardly  seemed  to  keep  pricked  up.  530 

Well,  that  man  went  on  Sundays,  touched  his  pay 
And  took  his  praise  from  government,  you  see ; 
For  something  like  two  dollars  every  week, 
He  'd  engage  tell  you  some  one  little  thing 
Of  some  one  man,  which  led  to  many  more, 
(Because  one  truth  leads  right  to  the  world's  end) 
And  make  you  that  man's  master  —  when  he  dined 
And  on  what  dish,  where  walked  to  keep  his  health 
And  to  what  street.     His  trade  was,  throwing  thus 
His  sense  out,  like  an  ant-eater's  long  tongue,  540 

Soft,  innocent,  warm,  moist,  impassible, 


382  MR.   SLUDGE,   "  THE  MEDIUM." 

And  when  't  was  crusted  o'er  with  creatures  —  slick, 
Their  juice  enriched  his  palate.     "Could  not  Sludge!" 

I  '11  go  yet  a  step  further,  and  maintain, 

Once  the  imposture  plunged  its  proper  depth 

I'  the  rotten  of  your  natures,  a]'  of  you, — 

(If  one 's  not  mad  nor  drunk,  ana  hardly  then) 

It 's  impossible  to  cheat  —  that 's,  be  found  out! 

Go  tell  your  brotherhood  this  first  slip  of  mine, 

All  to-day's  tale,  how  you  detected  Sludge,  550 

Behaved  unpleasantly,  till  he  was  fain  confess, 

And  so  has  come  to  grief!     You  '11  find,  I  think, 

Why  Sludge  still  snaps  his  fingers  in  your  face. 

There  now,  you  Ve  told  them !  What 's  their  prompt  reply  ? 

"  Sir,  did  that  youth  confess  he  had  cheated  me, 

I  'd  disbelieve  him.     He  may  cheat  at  times; 

That 's  in  the  '  medium  '-nature,  thus  they  're  made, 

Vain  and  vindictive,  cowards,  prone  to  scratch. 

And  so  all  cats  are ;  still  a  cat 's  the  beast 

You  coax  the  strange  electric  sparks  from  out,  560 

By  rubbing  back  its  fur ;  not  so  a  dog, 

Nor  lion,  nor  lamb  :  :t  is  the  cat's  nature,  sir! 

Why  not  the  dog's?     Ask  God,  who  made  them  beasts! 

D'  ye  think  the  sound,  the  nicely-balanced  man 

(Like  me  "  —  aside)  —  "  like  you  yourself,"  —  (aloud) 

"  —  He  's  stuff  to  make  a  '  medium  '?     Bless  your  soul, 

'T  is  these  hysteric,  hybrid  half-and-halfs, 

Equivocal,  worthless  vermin  yield  the  fire! 

We  take  such  as  we  find  them,  'ware  their  tricks, 

Wanting  their  service.     Sir,  Sludge  took  in  you —  S7° 

How,  I  can't  say,  not  being  there  to  watch : 

He  was  tried,  was  tempted  by  your  easiness,  — 

He  did  not  take  in  me ! " 

Thank  you  for  Sludge! 
I  'm  to  be  grateful  to  such  patrons,  eh, 
When  what  you  hear 's  my  best  word  ?  'T  is  a  challenge : 
"  Snap  at  all  strangers,  half-tamed  prairie-dog, 
So  you  cower  duly  at  your  keeper's  beck ! 
Cat,  show  what  claws  were  made  for,  muffling  them 
Only  to  me !     Cheat  others  if  you  can, 

Me,  if  you  dare!"     And,  my  wise  sir,  I  dared —  580 

Did  cheat  you  first,  made  you  cheat  others  next, 
And  had  the  help  o'  your  vaunted  manliness 
To  bully  the  incredulous.     You  used  me? 
Have  not  I  used  you,  taken  full  revenge, 
Persuaded  folk  they  knew  not  their  own  name, 
And  straight  they  'd  own  the  error!     Who  was  the  fool 
"When,  to  an  awe-struck  wide-eyed  open-mouthed 


MR.  SLUDGE,   «  THE  MEDIUM."  383 

Circle  of  sages,  Sludge  would  introduce 

Milton  composing  baby-rhymes,  and  Locke 

Reasoning  in  gibberish,  Homer  writing  Greek  590 

In  naughts  and  crosses,  Asaph  setting  psalms 

To  crotchet  and  quaver?     I  've  made  a  spirit  squeak 

In  sham  voice  for  a  minute,  then  outbroke 

Bold  in  my  own,  defying  the  imbeciles  — 

Have  copied  some  ghost's  pothooks,  half  a  page, 

Then  ended  with  my  own  scrawl  undisguised. 

"  All  right!     The  ghost  was  merely  using  Sludge, 

Suiting  itself  from  his  imperfect  stock!" 

Don't  talk  of  gratitude  to  me!     For  what? 

For  being  treated  as  a  showman's  ape,  600 

Encouraged  to  be  wicked  and  make  sport, 

Fret  or  sulk,  grin  or  whimper,  any  mood 

So  long  as  the  ape  be  in  it  and  no  man  — 

Because  a  nut  pays  every  mood  alike. 

Curse  your  superior,  superintending  sort, 

Who,  since  you  hate  smoke,  send  up  boys  that  climb 

To  cure  your  chimney,  bid  a  "  medium  "  lie 

To  sweep  you  truth  down !     Curse  your  women  too, 

Your  insolent  wives  and  daughters,  that  fire  up 

Or  faint  away  if  a  male  hand  squeeze  theirs,  610 

Yet,  to  encourage  Sludge,  may  play  with  Sludge 

As  only  a  "  medium,"  only  the  kind  of  thing 

They  must  humour,  fondle  .  .  oh,  to  misconceive 

Were  too  preposterous!     But  I  've  paid  them  out! 

They  've  had  their  wish  —  called  for  the  naked  truth, 

And  in  she  tripped,  sat  down  and  bade  them  stare : 

They  had  to  blush  a  little  and  forgive! 

"  The  fact  is,  children  talk  so  ;  in  next  world 

All  our  conventions  are  reversed,  —  perhaps 

Made  light  of:  something  like  old  prints,  my  dear!  620 

The  Judge  has  one,  he  brought  from  Italy, 

A  metropolis  in  the  background,  —  o'er  a  bridge, 

A  team  of  trotting  roadsters,  —  cheerful  groups 

Of  wayside  travelers,  peasants  at  their  work, 

And,  full  in  front,  quite  unconcerned,  why  not? 

Three  nymphs  conversing  with  a  cavalier, 

And  never  a  rag  among  them  :  '  fine,'  folk  cry  — 

And  heavenly  manners  seem  not  much  unlike! 

Let  Sludge  go  on  ;  we  '11  fancy  it 's  in  print! " 

If  such  as  came  for  wool,  sir,  went  home  shorn,  630 

Where  is  the  wrong  I  did  them  ?     'T  was  their  choice : 

They  tried  the  adventure,  ran  the  risk,  tossed  up 

And  lost,  as  some  one  's  sure  to  do  in  games. 

They  fancied  I  was  made  to  lose,  —  smoked  glass 

Useful  to  spy  the  sun  through,  spare  their  eyes : 


384  MR.   SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

And  had  I  proved  a  red-hot  iron  plate 

They  thought  to  pierce,  and,  for  their  pains,  grew  blind, 

Whose  were  the  fault  but  theirs  ?     While,  as  things  go, 

Their  loss  amounts  to  gain,  the  more  's  the  shame! 

They  've  had  their  peep  into  the  spirit-world,  640 

And  all  this  world  may  know  it.     They  've  fed  fat 

Their  self-conceit  which  else  had  starved :  what  chance 

Save  this,  of  cackling  o'er  a  golden  egg 

And  compassing  distinction  from  the  flock, 

Friends  of  a  feather?     Well,  they  paid  for  it, 

And  not  prodigiously  ;  the  price  o'  the  play, 

Not  counting  certain  pleasant  interludes, 

Was  scarce  a  vulgar  play's  worth.     When  you  buy 

The  actor's  talent,  do  you  dare  propose 

For  his  soul  beside?     Whereas,  my  soul  you  buy!  650 

Sludge  acts  Macbeth,  obliged  to  be  Macbeth, 

Or  you'll  not  hear  his  first  word!     Just  go  through 

That  slight  formality,  swear  himself 's  the  Thane, 

And  thenceforth  he  may  strut  and  fret  his  hour, 

Spout,  spawl,  or  spin  his  target,  no  one  cares! 

Why  had  n't  I  leave  to  play  tricks,  Sludge  as  Sludge? 

Enough  of  it  all!     I  've  wiped  out  scores  with  you  — 

Vented  your  fustian,  let  myself  be  streaked 

Like  tom-fool  with  your  ochre  and  carmine, 

Worn  patchwork  your  respectable  fingers  sewed  660 

To  metamorphose  somebody,  —  yes,  I  Ve  earned 

My  wages,  swallowed  down  my  bread  of  shame, 

And  shake  the  crumbs  off —  where  but  in  your  face  ? 

As  for  religion  —  why,  I  served  it,  sir! 

I  '11  stick  to  that !     With  my  phenomena 

I  laid  the  atheist  sprawling  on  his  back, 

Propped  up  Saint  Paul,  or,  at  least.  Swedenborg! 

In  fact,  it 's  just  the  proper  way  to  baulk 

These  troublesome  fellows  :  liars,  one  and  all, 

Are  not  these  sceptics  ?     Well,  to  baffle  them,  670 

No  use  in  being  squeamish  :  lie  yourself! 

Erect  your  buttress  just  as  wide  o'  the  line, 

Your  side,  as  they  build  up  the  wall  on  theirs ; 

Where  both  meet,  midway  in  a  point,  is  truth, 

High  overhead :  so,  take  your  room,  pile  bricks, 

Lie!     Oh,  there's  titillation  in  all  shame! 

What  snow  may  lose  in  white,  snow  gains  in  rose! 

Miss  Stokes  turns  —  Rahab, —  nor  a  bad  exchange! 

Glory  be  on  her,  for  the  good  she  wrought, 

Breeding  belief  anew  'neath  ribs  of  death,  680 

Brow-beating  now  the  unabashed  before, 

Ridding  us  of  their  whole  life's  gathered  straws 


MR.   SLUDGE,  "THE  MEDIUM.'" 


385 


By  a  live  coal  from  the  altar!     Why,  of  old, 

Great  men  spent  years  and  years  in  writing  books 

To  prove  we  've  souls,  and  hardly  proved  it  then : 

Miss  Stokes  with  her  live  coal,  for  you  and  me! 

Surely,  to  this  good  issue,  all  was  fair — 

Not  only  fondling  Sludge,  but,  even  suppose 

He  let  escape  some  spice  of  knavery,  —  well, 

In  wisely  being  blind  to  it!     Don't  you  praise  690 

Nelson  for  setting  spy-glass  to  blind  eye 

And  saying  .  .  what  was  it  —  that  he  could  not  see 

The  signal  he  was  bothered  with?    Ay,  indeed! 

I  '11  go  beyond :  there  's  a  real  love  of  a  lie, 

Liars  find  ready-made  for  lies  they  make, 

As  hand  for  glove,  or  tongue  for  sugar-plum. 

At  best,  't  is  never  pure  and  full  belief; 

Those  furthest  in  the  quagmire,  —  don't  suppose 

They  strayed  there  with  no  warning,  got  no  chance 

Of  a  filth-speck  in  their  face,  which  they  clenched  teeth,         700 

Bent  brow  against!     Be  sure  they  had  their  doubts, 

And  fears,  and  fairest  challenges  to  try 

The  floor  o'  the  seeming  solid  sand!     But  no! 

Their  faith  was  pledged^  acquaintance  too  apprised, 

All  but  the  last  step  ventured,  kerchiefs  waved, 

And  Sludge  called  "pet :  "  't  was  easier  marching  on 

To  the  promised  land  ;  join  those  who,  Thursday  next, 

Meant  to  meet  Shakespeare  :  better  follow  Sludge  — 

Prudent,  oh  sure!  —  on  the  alert,  how  else? 

But  making  for  the  mid-bog,  all  the  same!  710 

To  hear  your  outcries,  one  would  think  I  caught 

Miss  Stokes  by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck,  and  pitched  her  flat, 

Foolish-face-foremost!     Hear  these  simpletons, 

That 's  all  I  beg,  before  my  work 's  begun, 

Before  I  've  touched  them  with  my  finger-tip! 

Thus  they  await  me  (do  but  listen,  now! 

It  :s  reasoning,  this  is,  —  I  can't  imitate 

The  baby  voice,  though)  "In  so  many  tales 

Must  be  some  truth,  truth  tho'  a  pin-point  big, 

Yet,  some  :  a  single  man  's  deceived,  perhaps—  720 

Hardly,  a  thousand :  to  suppose  one  cheat 

Can  gull  all  these,  were  more  miraculous  far 

Than  aught  we  should  confess  a  miracle"  — 

And  so  on.     Then  the  Judge  sums  up  —  (it  's  rare) 

Bids  you  respect  the  authorities  that  leap 

To  the  judgment-seat  at  once,  —  why,  don't  you  note 

The  limpid  nature,  the  unblemished  life, 

The  spotless  honour,  indisputable  sense 

Of  the  first  upstart  with  his  story?     What — 


386  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

Outrage  a  boy  on  whom  you  ne'er  till  now  730 

Set  eyes,  because  he  finds  raps  trouble  him? 

Fools,  these  are  :  ay,  and  how  of  their  opposites 
Who  never  did,  at  bottom  of  their  hearts, 
Believe  for  a  moment?  —  Men  emasculate, 
Blank  of  belief,  who  played,  as  eunuchs  use, 
With  superstition  safely,  —  cold  of  blood, 
Who  saw  what  made  for  them  i'  the  mystery, 
Took  their  occasion,  and  supported  Sludge 

—  As  proselytes?     No,  thank  you,  far  too  shrewd! 

—  But  promisers  of  fair  play,  encouragers  740 
O'  the  claimant ;  who  in  candour  needs  must  hoist 

Sludge  up  on  Mars'  Hill,  get  speech  out  of  Sludge 

To  carry  off,  criticize,  and  cant  about! 

Did  n't  Athens  treat  Saint  Paul  so  ?  —  at  any  rate, 

It's  '-a  new  thing,"  philosophy  fumbles  at. 

Then  there  's  the  other  picker  out  of  pearl 

From  dung  heaps,  —  ay,  your  literary  man, 

Who  draws  on  his  kid  gloves  to  deal  with  Sludge 

Daintily  and  discreetly,  —  shakes  a  dust 

O'  the  doctrine,  flavours  thence,  he  well  knows  how,  750 

The  narrative  or  the  novel,  —  half-believes, 

All  for  the  book's  sake,  and  the  public's  stare, 

And  the  cash  that 's  God's  sole  solid  in  this  world! 

Look  at  him !     Try  to  be  too  bold,  too  gross 

For  the  master!     Not  you!     He  's  the  man  for  muck; 

Shovel  it  forth,  full-splash,  he  '11  smooth  your  brown 

Into  artistic  richness,  never  fear! 

Find  him  the  crude  stuff;  when  you  recognize 

Your  lie  again,  you  '11  doff  your  hat  to  it, 

Dressed  out  for  company!     "  For  company,"  760 

I  say,  since  there  's  the  relish  of  success : 

Let  all  pay  due  respect,  call  the  lie  truth, 

Save  the  soft  silent  smirking  gentleman 

Who  ushered  in  the  stranger :  you  must  sigh 

"  How  melancholy,  he,  the  only  one 

Fails  to  perceive  the  bearing  of  the  truth 

Himself  gave  birth  to!1'-  — There  's  the  triumph's  smack! 

That  man  would  choose  to  see  the  whole  world  roll 

I'  the  slime  o'  the  slough,  so  he  might  touch  the  tip 

Of  his  brush  with  what  I  call  the  best  of  browns  —  770 

Tint  ghost-tales,  spirit-stories,  past  the  power 

Of  the  outworn  umber  and  bistre ! 

Yet  I  think 

There  's  a  more  hateful  form  of  foolery  — 
The  social  sage's,  Solomon  of  saloons 


MR.  SLUDGE,  "THE  MEDIUM: 


387 


And  philosophic  diner-out,  the  fiibble 

Who  wants  a  doctrine  for  a  chopping-block 

To  try  the  edge  of  his  faculty  upon, 

Prove  how  much  common-sense  he  '11  hack  and  hew 

I1  the  critical  minute  'twixt  the  soup  and  fish! 

These  were  my  patrons  :  these  and  the  like  of  them  780 

Who,  rising  in  my  soul  now,  sicken  it,  — 

These  I  have  injured !     Gratitude  to  these  ? 

The  gratitude,  forsooth,  of  a  prostitute 

To  the  greenhorn  and  the  bully  —  friends  of  hers, 

From  the  wag  that  wants  the  queer  jokes  for  his  club, 

To  the  snuff-box-decorator,  honest  man, 

Who  just  was  at  his  wits'  end  where  to  find 

So  genial  a  Pasiphae !     All  and  each 

Pay,  compliment,  protect  from  the  police, 

And  how  she  hates  them  for  their  pains,  like  me!  790 

So  much  for  my  remorse  at  thanklessness 

Toward  a  deserving  public! 

But,  for  God? 

Ay,  that 's  a  question!     Well,  sir,  since  you  press  — 
(How  you  do  tease  the  whole  thing  out  of  me! 
I  don't  mean  you,  you  know,  when  I  say,  "  them : " 
Hate  you,  indeed !     But  that  Miss  Stokes,  that  Judge ! 
Enough,  enough  —  with  sugar:  thank  you,  sir!) 
Now  for  it,  then!     Will  you  believe  me,  though? 
You  Ve  heard  what  I  confess ;  I  don't  unsay 
A  single  word :  I  cheated  when  I  could,  800 

Rapped  with  my  toe-joints,  set  sham  hands  at  work, 
Wrote  down  names  weak  in  sympathetic  ink, 
Rubbed  odic  lights  with  ends  of  phosphor-match, 
And  all  the  rest;  believe  that:  believe  this, 
By  the  same  token,  though  it  seem  to  set 
The  crooked  straight  again,  unsay  the  said, 
Stick  up  what  I  've  knocked  down ;  I  can't  help  that, 
It's  truth!     I  somehow  vomit  truth  to-day. 
This  trade  of  mine  —  I  don't  know,  can't  be  sure 
But  there  was  something  in  it,  tricks  and  all!  810 

Really,  I  want  to  light  up  my  own  mind. 
They  were  tricks,  —  true,  but  what  I  mean  to  add 
Is  also  true.     First,  —  don't  it  strike  you,  sir? 
Go  back  t<5  the  beginning,  —  the  first  fact 
We  're  taught  is,  there  's  a  world  beside  this  world, 
With  spirits,  not  mankind,  for  tenantry ; 
That  much  within  that  world  once  sojourned  here, 
That  all  upon  this  world  will  visit  there, 
And  therefore  that  we,  bodily  here  below, 
Must  have  exactly  such  an  interest  820 


388  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

In  learning  what  may  be  the  ways  o'  the  world 

Above  us,  as  the  disembodied  folk 

Have  (by  all  analogic  likelihood) 

In  watching  how  things  go  in  the  old  home 

With  us,  their  sons,  successors,  and  what  not. 

Oh  yes,  with  added  powers  probably, 

Fit  for  the  novel  state,  —  old  loves  grown  pure, 

Old  interests  understood  aright,  —  they  watch! 

Eyes  to  see,  ears  to  hear,  and  hands  to  help, 

Proportionate  to  advancement :  they  're  ahead,  830 

That 's  all  —  do  what  we  do,  but  noblier  done  — 

Use  plate,  whereas  we  eat  our  meals  off  delf 

(To  use  a  figure). 

Concede  that,  and  I  ask 

Next  —  what  may  be  the  mode  of  intercourse 
Between  us  men  here,  and  those  once-men  there? 
First  comes  the  Bible's  speech  ;  then,  history 
With  the  supernatural  element,  —  you  know  — 
All  that  we  sucked  in  with  our  mothers1  milk, 
Grew  up  with,  got  inside  of  us  at  last. 

Till  it's  found  bone  of  bone  and  flesh  of  flesh.  840 

See  now,  we  start  with  the  miraculous, 
And  know  it  used  to  be,  at  all  events  : 
What  's  the  first  step  we  take,  and  can't  but  take, 
In  arguing  from  the  known  to  the  obscure? 
Why  this :  "  What  was  before,  may  be  to-day. 
Since  Samuel's  ghost  appeared  to  Saul,  of  course 
My  brother's  spirit  may  appear  to  me." 
Go  tell  your  teacher  that!     What 's  his  reply? 
What  brings  a  shade  of  doubt  for  the  first  time 
O'er  his  brow  late  so  luminous  with  faith  ?  850 

"  Such  things  have  been,"  says  he,  "and  there  's  no  doubt 
Such  things  may  be :  but  I  advise  mistrust 
Of  eyes,  ears,  stomach,  and  more  than  all,  your  brain, 
Unless  it  be  of  your  great-grandmother, 
Whenever  they  propose  a  ghost  to  you!  " 
The  end  is,  there  's  a  composition  struck  ; 
'T  is  settled,  we  've  some  way  of  intercourse 
Just  as  in  Saul's  time  ;  only,  different : 
How,  when  and  where,  precisely,  —  find  it  out!, 
I  want  to  know,  then,  what 's  so  natural  860 

As  that  a  person  born  into  this  world 
And  seized  on  by  such  teaching,  should  begin 
With  firm  expectancy  and  a  frank  look-out 
For  his  own  allotment,  his  especial  share 
I'  the  secret,  —  his  particular  ghost,  in  fine? 
I  mean,  a  person  born  to  look  that  way, 


MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUMS 


389 


Since  natures  differ :  take  the  painter-sort, 

One  man  lives  fifty  years  in  ignorance 

Whether  grass  be'green  or  red,  —  «  No  kind  of  eye 

For  colour,"  say  you ;  while  another  picks  870 

And  puts  away  even  pebbles,  when  a  child, 

Because  of  bluish  spots  and  pinky  veins  — 

"  Give  him  forthwith  a  paint-box! "    Just  the  same 

Was  I  born  ..."  medium,"  you  won't  let  me  say,  — 

Well,  seer  of  the  supernatural 

Everywhen,  everyhow  and  everywhere,  — 

Will  that  do? 

I  and  all  such  boys  of  course 
Started  with  the  same  stock  of  Bible-truth  ; 
Only,  —  what  in  the  rest  you  style  their  sense, 
Instinct,  blind  reasoning  but  imperative,  880 

This,  betimes,  taught  them  the  old  world  had  one  law 
And  ours  another:  "New  world,  new  laws,"  cried  they: 
"  None  but  old  laws,  seen  everywhere  at  work," 
Cried  I,  and  by  their  help  explained  my  life 
The  Jews'  way,  still  a  working  way  to  me. 
Ghosts  made  the  noises,  fairies  waved  the  lights, 
Or  Santa  Claus  slid  down  on  New  Year's  Eve 
And  stuffed  with  cakes  the  stocking  at  my  bed. 
Changed  the  worn  shoes,  rubbed  clean  the  fingered  slate 
O'  the  sum  that  came  to  grief  the  day  before.  890 

This  could  not  last. long:  soon  enough  I  found 

Who  had  worked  wonders  thus,  and  to  what  end : 

But  did  I  find  all  easy,  like  my  mates? 

Henceforth  no  supernatural  any  more? 

Not  a  whit:  what  projects  the  billiard-balls? 

"  A  cue,"  you  answer :  "  Yes,  a  cue,"  said  I ; 

"  But  what  hand,  off  the  cushion,  moved  the  cue? 

What  unseen  agency,  outside  the  world, 

Prompted  its  puppets  to  do  this  and  that, 

Put  cakes  and  shoes  and  slates  into  their  mind,  900 

These  mothers  and  aunts,  nay  even  schoolmasters?" 

Thus  high  I  sprang,  and  there  have  settled  since. 

Just  so  I  reason,  in  sober  earnest  still, 

About  the  greater  god-sends,  what  you  call 

The  serious  gains  and  losses  of  my  life. 

What  do  I  know  or  care  about  your  world 

Which  either  is  or  seems  to  be?     This  snap 

O'  my  fingers,  sir!     My  care  is  for  myself; 

Myself  am  whole  and  sole  reality 

Inside  a  raree-show  and  a  market-mob  910 

Gathered  about  it :  that 's  the  use  of  things. 


390  MR.  SLUDGE,  "THE  MEDIUM." 

'T  is  easy  saying  they  serve  vast  purposes, 

Advantage  their  grand  selves  :  be  it  true  or  false, 

Each  thing  may  have  two  uses.     What 's  a  star? 

A  world,  or  a  world's  sun  :  does  n't  it  serve 

As  taper  also,  time-piece,  weather-glass, 

And  almanac?     Are  stars  not  set  for  signs 

When  we  should  shear  our  sheep,  sow  corn,  prune  trees? 

The  Bible  says  so. 

Well,  I  add  one  use 

To  all  the  acknowledged  uses,  and  declare  920 

If  I  spy  Charles's  Wain  at  twelve  to-night, 
It  warns  me,  "  Go,  nor  lose  another  day, 
And  have  your  hair  cut,  Sludge!  "     You  laugh  :  and  why? 
Were  such  a  sign  too  hard  for  God  to  give  ? 
No :  but  Sludge  seems  too  little  for  such  grace  : 
Thank  you,  sir!     So  you  think,  so  does  not  Sludge! 
When  you  and  good  men  gape  at  Providence, 
Go  into  history  and  bid  us  mark 
Not  merely  powder-plots  prevented,  crowns 
Kept  on  kings'  heads  by  miracle  enough,  930 

But  private  mercies — oh,  you  Ve  told  me,  sir, 
Of  such  interpositions!     How  yourself 
Once,  missing  on  a  memorable  day 
Your  handkerchief — just  setting  out,  you  know,— 
You  must  return  to  fetch  it,  lost  the  train, 
And  saved  your  precious  self  from  what  befell 
The  thirty-three  whom  Providence  forgot. 
You  tell,  and  ask  me  what  I  think  of  this  ? 
Well,  sir,  I  think  then,  since  you  needs  must  know, 
What  matter  had  you  and  Boston  city  to  boot  940 

Sailed  skyward,  like  burnt  onion-peelings?     Much 
To  you,  no  doubt :  for  me — undoubtedly 
The  cutting  of  my  hair  concerns  me  more, 
Because,  however  sad  the  truth  may  seem, 
Sludge  is  of  all-importance  to  himself. 
You  set  apart  that  day  in  every  year 
For  special  thanksgiving,  were  a  heathen  else : 
Well,  I  who  can  not  boast  the  like  escape, 
Suppose  I  said  "  I  don't  thank  Providence 

For  my  part,  owing  it  no  gratitude  ? "  95° 

"  Nay,  but  you  owe  as  much  "  —  you  'd  tutor  me, 
"  You,  every  man  alive,  for  blessings  gained 
In  every  hour  o'  the  day,  could  you  but  know! 
I  saw  my  crowning  mercy  :  all  have  such, 
Could  they  but  see!  "     Well  sir,  why  don't  they  see? 
"Because  they  won't  look — or  perhaps,  they  can't." 
Then,  sir,  suppose  I  can,  and  will,  and  do 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDfUM?  39  r 

Look,  microscopically  as  is  right, 

Into  each  hour  with  its  infinitude 

Of  influences  at  work  to  profit  Sludge  ?  060 

For  that 's  the  case :  I  Ve  sharpened  up  my  sight 

To  spy  a  providence  in  the  fire's  going  out, 

The  kettle's  boiling,  the  dime's  sticking  fast 

Despite  the  hole  i'  the  pocket.     Call  such  facts 

Fancies,  too  petty  a  work  for  Providence, 

And  those  same  thanks  which  you  exact  from  me, 

Prove  too  prodigious  payment ;  thanks  for  what, 

If  nothing  guards  and  guides  us  little  men? 

No,  no,  sir!     You  must  put  away  your  pride, 

Resolved  to  let  Sludge  into  partnership!  970 

I  live  by  signs  and  omens  :  looked  at  the  roof 

Where  the  pigeons  settle  — "If  the  further  bird, 

The  white,  takes  wing  first,  I  '11  confess  when  thrashed ; 

Not,  if  the  blue  does  "  —  so  I  said  to  myself 

Last  week,  lest  you  should  take  me  by  surprise  : 

Off  flapped  the  white,  —  and  I  'm  confessing,  sir! 

Perhaps  't  is  Providence's  whim  and  way 

With  only  me,  i'  the  world :  how  can  you  tell? 

"  Because  unlikely! "     Was  it  likelier,  now, 

That  this  our  one  out  of  all  worlds  beside,  980 

The  what-d'you-call-'em  millions,  should  be  just 

Precisely  chosen  to  make  Adam  for, 

And  the  rest  o'  the  tale  ?     Yet  the  tale 's  true,  you  know : 

Such  undeserving  clod  was  graced  so  once ; 

Why  not  graced  likewise  undeserving  Sludge  ? 

Are  we  merit-mongers,  flaunt  we  filthy  rags  ? 

All  you  can  bring  against  my  privilege 

Is,  that  another  way  was  taken  with  you, — 

Which  I  don't  question.     It 's  pure  grace,  my  luck : 

I  'm  broken  to  the  way  of  nods  and  winks,  990 

And  need  no  formal  summoning.     You  Ve  a  help ; 

Holloa  his  name  or  whistle,  clap  your  hands, 

Stamp  with  your  foot  or  pull  the  bell :  all 's  one, 

He  understands  you  want  him,  here  he  comes. 

Just  so,  I  come  at  the  knocking :  you,  sir,  wait 

The  tongue  o'  the  bell,  nor  stir  before  you  catch 

Reason's  clear  tingle,  nature's  clapper  brisk, 

Or  that  traditional  peal  was  wont  to  cheer 

Your  mother's  face  turned  heavenward  :  short  of  these 

There  's  no  authentic  intimation,  eh?  1000 

Well,  when  you  hear,  you  '11  answer  them,  start  up 

And  stride  into  the  presence,  top  of  toe, 

And  there  find  Sludge  beforehand,  Sludge  that  sprang 

At  noise  o'  the  knuckle  on  the  partition-wall! 

I  think  myself  the  more  religious  man. 


392  MR.   SLUDGE,    "  THE  MEDIUM." 

Religion 's  all  or  nothing ;  it 's  no  mere  smile 

O'  contentment,  sigh  of  aspiration,  sir  — 

No  quality  o'  the  finelier-tempered  clay 

Like  its  whiteness  or  its  lightness  ;  rather,  stuff 

O1  the  very  stuff,  life  of  life,  and  self  of  self.  IOIO 

I  tell  you.  men  won't  notice ;  when  they  do, 

They  '11  understand.     I  notice  nothing  else : 

I  'm  eyes,  ears,  mouth  of  me,  one  gaze  and  gape, 

Nothing  eludes  me,  even-thing 's  a  hint, 

Handle  and  help.     It's  all  absurd,  and  yet 

There 's  something  in  it  all,  I  know :  how  much  ? 

No  answer!     What  does  that  prove?     Man  's  still  man, 

Still  meant  for  a  poor  blundering  piece  of  work 

When  all 's  done ;  but,  if  somewhat 's  done,  like  this, 

Or  not  done,  is  the  case  the  same?     Suppose  1020 

I  blunder  in  my  guess  at  the  true  sense 

O'  the  knuckle-summons,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  — 

What  if  the  tenth  guess  happen  to  be  right? 

If  the  tenth  shovel-load  of  powdered  quartz 

Yield  me  the  nugget?     I  gather,  crush,  sift  all, 

Pass  o'er  the  failure,  pounce  on  the  success. 

To  give  you  a  notion,  now  —  (let  who  wins,  laugh!) 

When  first  I  see  a  man,  what  do  I  first? 

Why,  count  the  letters  which  make  up  his  name, 

And  as  their  number  chances,  even  or  odd,  1030 

Arrive  at  my  conclusion,  trim  my  course  : 

Hiram  H.  Horsefall  is  your  honoured  name, 

And  have  n't  I  found  a  patron,  sir,  in  you  ? 

"  Shall  I  cheat  this  stranger?"     I  take  apple-pips, 

Stick  one  in  either  canthus  of  my  eye, 

And  if  the  left  drops  first  —  (your  left,  sir,  stuck) 

I  'm  warned,  I  let  the  trick  alone  this  time. 

You,  sir,  who  smile,  superior  to  such  trash, 

You  judge  of  character  by  other  rules  : 

Don't  your  rules  sometimes  fail  you  ?     Pray,  what  rule  1040 

Have  you  judged  Sludge  by  hitherto  ? 

Oh,  be  sure, 

You,  everybody  blunders,  just  as  I, 
In  simpler  things  than  these  by  far!     For  see : 
I  knew  two  farmers,  —  one,  a  wiseacre 
Who  studied  seasons,  rummaged  almanacs, 
Quoted  the  dew-point,  registered  the  frost, 
And  then  declared,  for  outcome  of  his  pains, 
Next  summer  must  be  dampish :  't  was  a  drought. 
His  neighbour  prophesied  such  drought  would  fall, 
Saved  hay  and  corn,  made  cent,  per  cent,  thereby,  1050 

And  proved  a  sage  indeed :  how  came  his  lore? 


MR.  SLUDGE,  "  THE  MEDIUM?  393 

Because  one  brindled  heifer,  late  in  March, 

Stiffened  her  tail  of  evenings,  and  somehow 

He  got  into  his  head  that  drought  was  meant! 

I  don't  expect  all  men  can  do  as  much : 

Such  kissing  goes  by  favour.     You  must  take 

A  certain  turn  of  mind  for  this,  —  a  twist 

I'  the  flesh,  as  well.     Be  lazily  alive, 

Open-mouthed,  like  my  friend  the  ant-eater, 

Letting  all  nature's  loosely-guarded  motes  1060 

Settle  and,  slick,  be  swallowed!     Think  yourself 

The  one  i'  the  world,  the  one  for  whom  the  world 

Was  made,  expect  it  tickling  at  your  mouth ! 

Then  will  the  swarm  of  busy  buzzing  flies, 

Clouds  of  coincidence,  break  egg-shell,  thrive, 

Breed,  multiply,  and  bring  you  food  enough. 

I  can't  pretend  to  mind  your  smiling,  sir! 
Oh,  what  you  mean  is  this!     Such  intimate  way, 
Close  converse,  frank  exchange  of  offices, 

Strict  sympathy  of  the  immeasurably  great  1070 

With  the  infinitely  small,  betokened  here 
By  a  course  of  signs  and  omens,  raps  and  sparks,  — 
How  does  it  suit  the  dread  traditional  text 
O'  the  "  Great  and  Terrible  Name?  "     Shall  the  Heaven 

of  Heavens 
Stoop  to  such  child's  play? 

Please  sir,  go  with  me 
A  moment,  and  I  '11  try  to  answer  you. 
The  "Magnum  et  terribile'"  (is  that  right?) 
Well,  folk  began  with  this  in  the  early  day ; 
And  all  the  acts  they  recognized  in  proof 

Were  thunders,  lightnings,  earthquakes,  whirlwinds,  dealt     1080 
Indisputably  on  men  whose  death  they  caused. 
There,  and  there  only,  folk  saw  Providence 
At  work,  —  and  seeing  it,  't  was  right  enough 
All  heads  should  tremble,  hands  wring  hands  amain, 
And  knees  knock  hard  together  at  the  breath 
O'  the  Name's  first  letter ;  why,  the  Jews,  I  'm  told, 
Won't  write  it  down,  no,  to  this  very  hour, 
Nor  speak  aloud  :  you  know  best  if  H  be  so. 
Each  ague-fit  of  fear  at  end,  they  crept 
(Because  somehow  people  once  born  must  live) 
Out  of  the  sound,  sight,  swing  and  sway  o'  the  Name, 
Into  a  corner,  the  dark  rest  of  the  world 
And  safe  space  where  as  yet  no  fear  had  reached ; 
'T  was  there  they  looked  about  them,  breathed  again, 
And  felt  indeed  at  home,  as  we  might  say. 


394  MR-   SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

The  current  o'  common  things,  the  daily  life, 

This  had  their  due  contempt ;  no  Name  pursued 

Man  from  the  mountain-top  where  fires  abide, 

To  his  particular  mouse-hole  at  its  foot 

Where  he  ate,  drank,  digested,  lived  in  short.  noo 

Such  was  man's  vulgar  business,  far  too  small 

To  be  worth  thunder :  "  small,"  folk  kept  on,  "  small," 

With  much  complacency  in  those  great  days! 

A  mote  of  sand,  you  know,  a  blade  of  grass  — 

What  was  so  despicable  as  mere  grass. 

Except  perhaps  the  life  o1  the  worm  or  fly 

Which  fed  there  ?     These  were  "  small "  and  men  were 

great. 

Well,  sir,  the  old  way 's  altered  somewhat  since, 
And  the  world  wears  another  aspect  now  : 

Somebody  turns  our  spyglass  round,  or  else  mo 

Puts  a  new  lens  in  it :  grass,  worm,  fly  grow  big : 
We  find  great  things  are  made  of  little  things, 
And  little  things  go  lessening  till  at  last 
Comes  God  behind  them.     Talk  of  mountains  now? 
We  talk  of  mould  that  heaps  the  mountain,  mites 
That  throng  the  mould,  and  God  that  makes  the  mites. 
The  Name  comes  close  behind  a  stomach-cyst, 
The  simplest  of  creations,  just  a  sac 
That 's  mouth,  heart,  legs  and  belly  at  once,  yet  lives 
And  feels,  and  could  do  neither,  we  conclude,  1120 

If  simplified  still  further  one  degree  : 
The  small  becomes  the  dreadful  and  immense! 
Lightning,  forsooth?     No  word  more  upon  that! 
A  tin-foil  bottle,  a  strip  of  greasy  silk, 
With  a  bit  of  wire  and  knob  of  brass,  and  there  's 
Your  dollar's  worth  of  lightning!     But  the  cyst  — 
The  life  of  the  least  of  the  little  things  ? 

No,  no!     * 

Preachers  and  teachers  try  another  tack, 
Come  near  the  truth  this  time  :  they  put  aside 
Thunder  and  lightning  :  "  That 's  mistake,"  they  cry,  1130 

"Thunderbolts  fall  for  neither  fright  nor  sport, 
But  do  appreciable  good,  like  tides, 
Changes  o'  the  wind,  and  other  natural  facts  — 
'  Good  '  meaning  good  to  man,  his  body  or  soul. 
Mediate,  immediate,  all  things  minister 
To  man,  —  that 's  settled  :  be  our  future  text 
'We  are  His  children! '  "     So,  they  now  harangue 
About  the  intention,  the  contrivance,  all 
That  keeps  up  an  incessant  play  of  love, — 
See  the  Bridgewater  book. 


MR.  SLUDGE,  «  THE  MEDIUM."  395 

Amen  to  it!  1140 

Well,  sir,  I  put  this  question :  I  'm  a  child  ? 
I  lose  no  time,  but  take  you  at  your  word : 
How  shall  I  act  a  child's  part  properly  ? 
Your  sainted  mother,  sir,  —  used  you  to  live 
With  such  a  thought  as  this  a-worrying  you? 
"  She  has  it  in  her  power  to  throttle  me, 
Or  stab  or  poison  :  she  may  turn  me  out, 
Or  lock  me  in,  —  nor  stop  at  this  to-day, 
But  cut  me  off  to-morrow  from  the  estate 

I  look  for" —  (long  may  you  enjoy  it,  sir!)  1150 

"  In  brief,  she  may  unchild  the  child  I  am." 
You  never  had  such  crotchets?     Nor  have  I! 
Who,  frank  confessing  childship  from  the  first, 
Can  not  both  fear  and  take  my  ease  at  once. 
So,  don't  fear,  —  know  what  might  be,  well  enough 
But  know  too,  child-like,  that  it  will  not  be, 
At  least  in  my  case,  mine,  the  son  and  heir 
O'  the  kingdom,  as  yourself  proclaim  my  style. 
But  do  you  fancy  I  stop  short  at  this  ? 

Wonder  if  suit  and  service,  son  and  heir  1160 

Needs  must  expect,  I  dare  pretend  to  find? 
If,  looking  for  signs  proper  to  such  an  one, 
I  straight  perceive  them  irresistible  ? 
Concede  that  homage  is  a  son's  plain  right, 
And,  never  mind  the  nods  and  raps  and  winks, 
'T  is  the  pure  obvious  supernatural 
Steps  forward,  does  its  duty :  why,  of  course ! 
I  have  presentiments :  my  dreams  come  true : 
I  fancy  a  friend  stands  whistling  all  in  white 
Blithe  as  a  boblink,  and  he  's  dead  I  learn.  1170 

I  take  dislike  to  a  dog  my  favourite  long, 
And  sell  him  ;  he  goes  mad  next  week  and  snaps. 
I  guess  that  stranger  will  turn  up  to-day 
I  have  not  seen  these  three  years ;  there  's  his  knock. 
I  wager  "  sixty  peaches  on  that  tree ! "  - 
That  I  pick  up  a  dollar  in  my  walk, 
That  your  wife's  brother's  cousin's  name  was  George  — 
And  win  on  all  points.     Oh,  you  wince  at  this? 
You  'd  fain  distinguish  between  gift  and  gift, 
Washington's  oracle  and  Sludge's  itch  n8c 

O'  the  elbow  when  at  whist  he  ought  to  trump? 
With  Sludge  it 's  too  absurd?     Fine,  draw  the  line 
Somewhere,  but,  sir, your  somewhere  is  not  mine! 

Bless  us,  I  'm  turning  poet!     It 's  time  to  end. 
How  you  have  drawn  me  out,  sir!     All  I  ask 
Is  —  am  I  heir  or  not  heir?     If  I  'm  he, 


396  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

Then,  sir,  remember,  that  same  personage 

(To  judge  by  what  we  read  i'  the  newspaper) 

Requires,  beside  one  nobleman  in  gold 

To  carry  up  and  down  his  coronet,  1190 

Another  servant,  probably  a  duke, 

To  hold  egg-nogg  in  readiness :  why  want 

Attendance,  sir,  when  helps  in  his  father's  house 

Abound,  I  'd  like  to  know  ? 

Enough  of  talk! 

My  fault  is  that  I  tell  too  plain  a  truth. 
Why,  which  of  those  who  say  they  disbelieve, 
Your  clever  people,  but  has  dreamed  his  dream, 
Caught  his  coincidence,  stumbled  on  his  fact 
He  can't  explain,  (he  '11  tell  you  smilingly) 
Which  he  's  too  much  of  a  philosopher  1200 

To  count  as  supernatural,  indeed, 
So  calls  a  puzzle  and  problem,  proud  of  it? 
—  Bidding  you  still  be  on  your  guard,  you  know, 
Because  one  fact  don't  make  a  system  stand, 
Nor  prove  this  an  occasional  escape 
Of  spirit  beneath  the  matter :  that 's  the  way ! 
Just  so  wild  Indians  picked  up,  piece  by  piece, 
The  fact  in  California,  the  fine  gold 
That  underlay  the  gravel  —  hoarded  these, 
But  never  made  a  system  stand,  nor  dug!  1210 

So  wise  men  hold  out  in  each  hollowed  palm 
A  handful  of  experience,  sparkling  fact 
They  can't  explain;  and  since  their  rest  of  life 
Is  all  explainable,  what  proof  in  this? 
Whereas  I  take  the  fact,  the  grain  of  gold, 
And  fling  away  the  dirty  rest  of  life. 
And  add  this  grain  to  the  grain  each  fool  has  found 
O'  the  million  other  such  philosophers, — 
Till  I  see  gold,  all  gold  and  only  gold, 

Truth  questionless  tho1  unexplainable,  I22O 

And  the  miraculous  proved  the  commonplace! 
The  other  fools  believed  in  mud,  no  doubt  — 
Failed  to  know  gold  they  saw  :  was  that  so  strange? 
Are  all  men  born  to  play  Bach's  fiddle-fugues, 
"  Time  "  with  the  foil  in  carte,  jump  their  own  height, 
Cut  the  mutton  with  the  broadsword,  skate  a  five, 
Make  the  red  hazard  with  the  cue,  clip  nails 
While  swimming,  in  five  minutes  row  a  mile, 
Pull  themselves  three  feet  up  with  the  left  arm, 
Do  sums  of  fifty  figures  in  their  head,  1230 

And  so  on,  .by  the  scores  of  instances? 
The  Sludge  with  luck,  who  sees  the  spiritual  facts 


MR.  SLUDGE,   «  THE  MEDIUM." 

His  fellows  strive  and  fail  to  see,  may  rank 
With  these,  and  share  the  advantage. 

~,      ,       ,  Ay,  but  share 

The  drawback!     Think  it  over  by  yourself; 

I  have  not  heart,  sir,  and  the  fire  's  gone  gray. 

Defect  somewhere  compensates  for  success, 

Everyone  knows  that.     Oh,  we  're  equals,  sir! 

The  big-legged  fellow  has  a  little  arm 

And  a  less  brain,  tho'  big  legs  win  the  race.  I24a 

Do  you  suppose  I  'scape  the  common  lot? 

Say,  I  was  born  with  flesh  so  sensitive, 

Soul  so  alert,  that,  practice  helping  both, 

I  guess  what 's  going  on  outside  the  veil, 

Just  as  a  prisoned  crane  feels  pairing-time 

In  the  islands  where  his  kind  are,  so  must  fall 

To  capering  by  himself  some  shiny  night, 

As  if  your  back-yard  were  a  plot  of  spice  — 

Thus  am  I  'ware  o'  the  spirit-world :  while  you, 

Blind  as  a  beetle  that  way,  —  for  amends,  1250 

Why,  you  can  double  fist  and  floor  me,  sir! 

Ride  that  hot  hardmouthed  horrid  horse  of  yours, 

Laugh  while  it  lightens,  play  with  the  great  dog, 

Speak  your  mind  tho'  it  vex  some  friend  to  hear, 

Never  brag,  never  bluster,  never  blush,  — 

In  short,  you  Ve  pluck,  when  I  'm  a  coward  —  there! 

I  know  it,  I  can't  help  it,  —  folly  or  no, 

I  'm  paralyzed,  my  hand 's  no  more  a  hand, 

Nor  my  head  a  head,  in  danger :  you  can  smile 

And  change  the  pipe  in  your  cheek.   Your  gift 's  not  mine     '260 

Would  you  swap  for  mine?     No!  but  you  'd  add  my  gift 

To  yours  :  I  dare  say !     I  too  sigh  at  times, 

Wish  I  were  stouter,  could  tell  truth  nor  flinch, 

Kept  cool  when  threatened,  did  not  mind  so  much 

Being  dressed  gaily,  making  strangers  stare, 

Eating  nice  things ;  when  I  'd  amuse  myself, 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  fancy  in  my  brain, 

I  'm  —  now  the  President,  now,  Jenny  Lind, 

Now,  Emerson,  now,  the  Benicia  Boy — 

With  all  the  civilized  world  a-wondering  1270 

And  worshiping.     I  know  it 's  folly  and  worse ; 

I  feel  such  tricks  sap,  honeycomb  the  soul : 

But  I  can't  cure  myself,  —  despond,  despair, 

And  then,  hey,  presto,  there  's  a  turn  o'  the  wheel, 

Under  comes  uppermost,  fate  makes  full  amends ; 

Sludge  knows  and  sees  and  hears  a  hundred  things 

You  all  are  blind  to,  —  I  Ve  my  taste  of  truth, 

Likewise  my  touch  of  falsehood,  —  vice  no  doubt, 

But  you  've  your  vices  also  :  I  'm  content. 


398  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

What,  sir?     You  won't  shake  hands?     "Because  I  1280 

cheat! 

You  've  found  me  out  in  cheating!  "     That 's  enough 
To  make  an  apostle  swear!     Why,  when  I  cheat, 
Mean  to  cheat,  do  cheat,  and  ant  caught  in  the  act, 
Are  you,  or  rather,  am  I  sure  0'  the  fact? 
(There  's  verse  again,  but  I  'm  inspired  somehow.) 
Well  then  I  'm  not  sure!     I  may  be,  perhaps, 
Free  as  a  babe  from  cheating :  how  it  began, 
My  gift,  —  no  matter ;  what 't  is  got  to  be 
In  the  end  now,  that 's  the  question ;  answer  that! 
Had  I  seen,  perhaps,  what  hand  was  holding  mine,  1290 

Leading  me  whither,  I  had  died  of  fright, 
So,  I  was  made  believe  I  led  myself. 
If  I  should  lay  a  six-inch  plank  from  roof 
To  roof,  you  would  not  cross  the  street,  one  step, 
Even  at  your  mother's  summons  :  but,  being  shrewd, 
If  I  paste  paper  on  each  side  the  plank 
And  swear 't  is  solid  pavement,  why,  you  '11  cross 
Humming  a  tune  the  while,  in  ignorance 
Beacon  Street  stretches  a  hundred  feet  below : 
I  walked  thus,  took  the  paper-cheat  for  stone.  1300 

Some  impulse  made  me  set  a  thing  o"  the  move 
Which,  started  once,  ran  really  by  itself; 
Beer  flows  thus,  suck  the  siphon  ;  toss  the  kite, 
It  takes  the  wind  and  floats  of  its  own  force. 
Don't  let  truth's  lump  rot  stagnant  for  the  lack 
Of  a  timely  helpful  lie  to  leaven  it! 
Put  a  chalk-egg  beneath  the  clucking  hen, 
She  '11  lay  a  real  one,  laudably  deceived, 
Daily  for  weeks  to  come.     I  've  told  my  lie, 
And  seen  truth  follow,  marvels  none  of  mine  ;  1310 

All  was  not  cheating,  sir,  I  'm  positive! 
I  don't  know  if  I  move  your  hand  sometimes 
When  the  spontaneous  writing  spreads  so  far, 
If  my  knee  lifts  the  table  all  that  height, 
Why  the  inkstand  don't  fall  off  the  desk  a-tilt, 
Why  the  accordion  plays  a  prettier  waltz 
Than  I  can  pick  out  on  the  piano-forte, 
Why  I  speak  so  much  more  than  I  intend, 
Describe  so  many  things  I  never  saw. 

I  tell  you,  sir,  in  one  sense,  I  believe  1320 

Nothing  at  all,  —  that  everybody  can, 
Will,  and  does  cheat :  but  in  another  sense 
I  'm  ready  to  believe  my  very  self — 
That  every  cheat 's  inspired,  and  every  lie 
Quick  with  a  germ  of  truth. 


MR.   SLUDGE,   "  THE  MEDIUM? 

You  ask  perhaps 

Why  I  should  condescend  to  trick  at  all 
If  I  know  a  way  without  it?     This  is  why! 
There 's  a  strange  secret  sweet  self-sacrifice 
In  any  desecration  of  one's  soul 

To  a  worthy  end,  —  is  n't  it  Herodotus  1330 

(I  wish  I  could  read  Latin!)  who  describes 
The  single  gift  o'  the  land's  virginity, 
Demanded  in  those  old  Egyptian  rites, 
(I  've  but  a  hazy  notion  —  help  me,  sir!) 
For  one  purpose  in  the  world,  one  day  in  a  life, 
One  hour  in  a  day  —  thereafter,  purity, 
And  a  veil  thrown  o'er  the  past  for  evermore! 
Well  now  they  understood  a  many  things 
Down  by  Nile  city,  or  wherever  it  was ! 

I  Ve  always  vowed,  after  the  minute's  lie,  1340 

And  the  end's  gain,  —  truth  should  be  mine  henceforth. 
This  goes  to  the  root  o'  the  matter,  sir,  —  this  plain 
Plump  fact :  accept  it  and  unlock  with  it 
The  wards  of  many  a  puzzle! 

Or,  finally, 

Why  should  I  set  so  fine  a  gloss  on  things? 
What  need  I  care?     I  cheat  in  self-defence, 
And  there  's  my  answer  to  a  world  of  cheats! 
Cheat?     To  be  sure,  sir!     What 's  the  world  worth  else? 
Who  takes  it  as  he  finds,  and  thanks  his  stars  ? 
Don't  it  want  trimming,  turning,  furbishing  up  1350 

And  polishing  over?     Your  so-styled  great  men, 
Do  they  accept  one  truth  as  truth  is  found, 
Or  try  their  skill  at  tinkering?     What 's  your  world? 
Here  are  you  born,  who  are,  I  '11  say  at  once, 
Of  the  luckiest  kind  whether  in  head  and  heart, 
Body  and  soul,  or  all  that  helps  them  both. 
Well,  now,  look  back :  what  faculty  of  yours 
Came  to  its  full,  had  ample  justice  done 
By  growing  when  rain  fell,  biding  its  time, 

Solidifying  growth  when  earth  was  dead,  1360 

Spiring  up,  broadening  wide,  in  seasons  due? 
Never!     You  shot  up  and  frost  nipped  you  off, 
Settled  to  sleep  when  sunshine  bade  you  sprout ; 
One  faculty  thwarted  its  fellow :  at  the  end, 
All  you  boast  is,  "  I  had  proved  a  topping  tree 
In  other  climes  "  —  yet  this  was  the  right  clime 
Had  you  foreknown  the  seasons.     Young,  you  've  force 
Wasted  like  well-streams  :  old,  —  oh,  then  indeed* 
Behold  a  labyrinth  of  hydraulic  pipes 
Thro'  which  you  'd  play  off  wondrous  waterwork ;  1370 


400  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM." 

Only,  no  water 's  left  to  feed  their  play. 

Young,  —  you  Ve  a  hope,  an  aim,  a  love ;  it 's  tossed 

And  crossed  and  lost :  you  struggle  on,  some  spark 

Shut  in  your  heart  against  the  puffs  around, 

Thro'  cold  and  pain  ;  these  in  due  time  subside  : 

Now  then  for  age's  triumph,  the  hoarded  light 

You  mean  to  loose  on  the  altered  face  of  things,  — 

Up  with  it  on  the  tripod!     It 's  extinct. 

Spend  your  life's  remnant  asking  —  which  was  best, 

Light  smothered  up  that  never  peeped  forth  once,  1380 

Or  the  cold  cresset  with  full  leave  to  shine? 

Well,  accept  this  too,  —  seek  the  fruit  of  it  •  > 

Not  in  enjoyment,  proved  a  dream  on  earth,? 

But  knowledge,  useful  for  a  second  chance,  ' 

Another  life,  —  you  've  lost  this  world,  you  Ve  gained 

Its  knowledge  for  the  next.  — What  knowledge,  sir, 

Except  that  you  know  nothing?     Nay,  you  doubt 

Whether  't  were  better  have  made  you  man  or  brute, 

If  aught  be  true,  if  good  and  evil  clash. 

No  foul,  no  fair,  no  inside,  no  outside,  1390 

There  's  your  world! 

Give  it  me!  I  slap  it  brisk 

With  harlequin's  pasteboard  sceptre  :  what 's  it  now? 
Changed  like  a  rock-flat,  rough  with  rusty  weed, 
At  first  wash-over  o'  the  returning  wave! 
All  the  dry  dead  impracticable  stuff 
Starts  into  life  and  light  again ;  this  world 
Pervaded  by  the  influx  from  the  next. 
I  cheat,  and  what's  the  happy  consequence? 
You  find  full  justice  straightway  dealt  you  out, 
Each  want  supplied,  each  ignorance  set  at  ease,  1400 

Each  folly  fooled.     No  life-long  labour  now 
As  the  price  of  worse  than  nothing!     No  mere  film 
Holding  you  chained  in  iron,  as  it  seems, 
Against  the  outstretch  of  your  very  arms 
And  legs  i'  the  sunshine  moralists  forbid! 
What  would  you  have?     Just  speak  and,  there,  you  see! 
You  're  supplemented,  made  a  whole  at  last : 
Bacon  advises,  Shakespeare  writes  you  songs, 
And  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  embraces  you. 

Thus  it  goes  on,  not  quite  like  life  perhaps,  1410 

But  so  near,  that  the  very  difference  piques, 
Shows  that  e'en  better  than  this  best  will  be  — 
This  passing  entertainment  in  a  hut 
Whose  bare  walls  take  your  taste  since,  one  stage  more, 
And  you  arrive  at  the  palace  :  all  half  real, 
And  you,  to  suit  it,  less  than  real  beside, 


MR.  SLUDGE,  "  THE  MEDIUM."  4OI 

In  a  dream,  lethargic  kind  of  death  in  life, 

That  helps  the  interchange  of  natures,  flesh 

Transfused  by  souls,  and  such  souls!     Oh,  \  is  choice! 

And  if  at  whiles  the  bubble,  blown  too  thin,  1420 

Seem  nigh  on  bursting,  —  if  you  nearly  see 

The  real -world  thro'  the  false,  —  whatV^  you  see? 

Is  the  oia  so  ruined?     You  find  you  're  in  a  flock 

O'  the  youthful,  earnest,  passionate  —  genius,  beauty, 

Rank  and  wealth  also,  if  you  care  for  these : 

And  all  depose  their  natural  rights,  hail  you, 

(That 's  me,  sir)  as  their  mate  and  yoke-fellow. 

Participate  in  Sludgehood  —  nay,  grow  mine, 

I  veritably  possess  them  —  banish  doubt, 

And  reticence  and  modesty  alike!  1430 

Why^iere  's  the  Golden  Age,  old  Paradise 

Or  new  Eutopia!     Here  's  true  life  indeed, 

And  the  world  well  won  now,  mine  for  the  first  time ! 

And  all  this  might  be,  may  be,  and  with  good  help 

Of  a  little  lying  shall  be  :  so,  Sludge  lies! 

Why,  he  's  at  worst  your  poet  who  sings  how  Greeks 

That  never  were,  in  Troy  which  never  was, 

Did  this  or  the  other  impossible  great  thing ! 

He  's  Lowell  —  it 's  a  world  (you  smile  applause) 

Of  his  own  invention  —  wondrous  Longfellow,  144° 

Surprising  Hawthorne!     Sludge  does  more  than  they, 

And  acts  the  books  they  write :  the  more  his  praise! 

But  why  do  I  mount  to  poets  ?     Take  plain  prose  — 

Dealers  in  common  sense,  set  these  at  work, 

What  can  they  do  without  their  helpful  lies? 

Each  states  the  law  and  fact  and  face  o'  the  thing 

Just  as  he  'd  have  them,  finds  what  he  thinks  fit, 

Is  blind  to  what  missuits  him,  just  records 

What  makes  his  case  out,  quite  ignores  the  rest. 

It 's  a  History  of  the  World,  the  Lizard  Age,  1450 

The  Early  Indians,  the  Old  Country  War, 

Jerome  Napoleon,  whatsoever  you  please, 

All  as  the  author  wants  it.     Such  a  scribe 

You  pay  and  praise  for  putting  life  in  stones, 

Fire  into  fog,  making  the  past  your  world. 

There  's  plenty  of  "  How  did  you  contrive  to  grasp 

The  thread  which  led  you  thro'  this  labyrinth  ? 

How  build  such  solid  fabric  out  of  air? 

How  on  so  slight  foundation  found  this  tale, 

Biography,  narrative?"  or,  in  other  words,  1460 

"How  many  lies  did  it  require  to  make 

The  portly  truth  you  here  present  us  with?" 


402  MR.  SLUDGE,   "THE  MEDIUM? 

"  Oh,"  quoth  the  penman,  purring  at  your  praise, 

"  'T  is  fancy  all ;  no  particle  of  fact : 

I  was  poor  and  threadbare  when  I  wrote  that  book 

'  Bliss  in  the  Golden  City.'     I,  at  Thebes? 

We  writers  paint  out  of  our  heads,  you  see! " 

"  —  Ah,  the  more  wonderful  the  gift  in  you, 

The  more  creativeness  and  godlike  craft!" 

But  I,  do  I  present  you  with  my  piece,  147° 

It 's  "•  What,  Sludge?     When  my  sainted  mother  spoke 

The  verses  Lady  Jane  Grey  last  composed 

About  the  rosy  bower  in  the  seventh  heaven 

Where  she  and  Queen  Elizabeth  keep  house,  — 

You  made  the  raps  ?     'T  was  your  invention  that  ? 

Cur,  slave  and  devil!"  —  eight  fingers  and  two  thumbs 

Stuck  in  my  throat! 

Well,  if  the  marks  seem  gone, 
'T  is  because  stiffish  cock-tail,  taken  in  time, 
Is  better  for  a  bruise  than  arnica. 

There,  sir!     I  bear  no  malice  :  't  is  n't  in  me.  1480 

I  know  I  acted  wrongly :  still,  I've  tried 
What  I  could  say  in  my  excuse,  —  to  show 
The  devil 's  not  all  devil  ...  I  don't  'pretend 
He  's  angel,  much  less  such  a  gentleman 
As  you,  sir!     And  I  've  lost  you,  lost  myself, 
Lost  all-1-1-1-  .... 

No  —  are  you  in  earnest,  sir? 
O,  yours,  sir,  is  an  angel's  part!     I  know 
What  prejudice  prompts,  and  what 's  the  common  course 
Men  take  to  soothe  their  ruffled  self-conceit : 
Only  you  rise  superior  to  it  all !  *49° 

No,  sir,  it  don't  hurt  much  ;  it 's  speaking  long 
That  makes  me  choke  a  little :  the  marks  will  go! 
What?     Twenty  V-notes  more,  and  outfit  too, 
And  not  a  word  to  Greeley  ?     One  —  one  kiss 
O'  the  hand  that  saves  me?     You  '11  not  let  me  speak, 
I  well  know,  and  I  Ve  lost  the  right,  too  true ! 
But  I  must  say,  sir,  if  She  hears  (she  does) 
Your  sainted  .  .  .  Well,  sir,  —  be  it  so!     That's,  I  think, 
My  bed-room  candle.     Good-night!     Bl-1-less  you,  sir! 


R-r-r,  you  brute-beast  and  blackguard!     Cowardly  scamp!    1500 

I  only  wish  I  dared  burn  down  the  house 

And  spoil  your  sniggering!     Oh,  what,  you  're  the  man? 

You  're  satisfied  at  last  ?     You  've  found  out  Sludge  ? 

We  '11  see  that  presently :  my  turn,  sir,  next! 


THE  BOY  AND   THE  ANGEL. 


403 


I  too  can  tell  my  story:  brute.  —  do  you  hear?  — 

You  throttled  your  sainted  mother,  that  old  hag, 

In  just  such  a  fit  of  passion :  no,  it  was  .  .  . 

To  get  this  house  of  hers,  and  many  a  note 

Like  these  .  .  .  I  '11  pocket  them,  however  .  .  .  five, 

Ten,  fifteen  .  .  .  ay,  you  gave  her  throat  the  twist,  1510 

Or  else  you  poisoned  her!     Confound  the  cuss! 

Where  was  my  head  ?     I  ought  to  have  prophesied 

He  '11  die  in  a  year  and  join  her :  that 's  the  way. 

I  don't  know  where  my  head  is :  what  had  I  done? 

How  did  it  all  go  ?     I  said  he  poisoned  her, 

And  hoped  he  'd  have  grace  given  him  to  repent ; 

Whereon  he  picked  this  quarrel,  bullied  me 

And  called  me  cheat :  I  thrashed  him,  —  who  could  help? 

He  howled  for  mercy,  prayed  me  on  his  knees 

To  cut  and  run  and  save  him  from  disgrace :  1520 

I  do  so,  and  once  off,  he  slanders  me. 

An  end  of  him!     Begin  elsewhere  anew! 

Boston  's  a  hole,  the  herring-pond  is  wide, 

V-notes  are  something,  liberty  still  more. 

Beside,  is  he  the  only  fool  in  the  world? 


THE   BOY  AND   THE   ANGEL. 

MORNING,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
"  Praise  God ! "  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well ; 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell. 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "Praise  God!" 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 

And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew.  10 

Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  "  Well  done ; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son : 

"  As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 

Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 


404  THE  BOY  AND   THE  ANGEL. 

u  This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "Would  God  that  I 

Might  praise  Him,  that  great  way,  and  die!" 

Night  passed,  day  shone, 

And  Theocrite  was  gone.  2O 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day, 

God  said  in  heaven,  "  Nor  day  nor  night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight." 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth, 
Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth ; 

Entered,  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell, 

Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman  well ; 

And  morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 

Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite.  30 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew : 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue : 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay : 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent, 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will ;  to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said,  "  A  praise  is  in  mine  ear ; 

There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear :  40 

"  So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 

New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool  go. 

"  Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways : 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL.  405 

T  was  Easter  Day :  he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  Saint  Peter's  dome. 

In  the  tiring-room  close  by 

The  great  outer  gallery,  co 

With  his  holy  vestments  dight, 
Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite  : 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 
Till  on  his  life  the  sickness  weighed ; 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer : 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear, 

He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here.  60 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned, 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

"  I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here ;  I  did  not  well. 

"  Vainly  I  left  my  angel-sphere, 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

"Thy  voice's  praise  seemed  weak ;  it  dropped  — 
Creation's  chorus  stopped! 

"  Go  back  and  praise  again 

The  early  way,  while  I  remain.  74 

"  With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain, 
Take  up  creation's  pausing  strain. 

"  Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ : 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  boy!" 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home ; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died: 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


A   DEATH   IN   THE   DESERT.  r   ? 

[  QUPPOSED  of  Pamphylax  the  Antiochene  : 

O  It  is  a  parchment,  of  my  rolls  the  fifth, 
Hath  three  skins  glued  together,  is  all  Greek, 
And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mn : 
Lies  second  in  the  surnamed  Chosen  Chest, 

Stained  and  conserved  with  juice  of  terebinth,  i    o  ft  V» 

Covered  with  cloth  of  hair,  and  lettered  AY, 
From  Xanthus.  my  wife's  uncle,  now  at  peace : 
•    Mu  and  Epsilon  stand  for  my  own  name, 

I  may  not  write  it,  but  I  make  a  cross  10 

To  show  I  wait  His  coming,  with  the  rest, 
And  leave  off  here  :  beginneth  Pamphylax.] 

I  said,  "If  one  should  wet  his  lips  with  wine, 

And  slip  the  broadest  plantain-leaf  we  find, 

Or  else  the  lappet  of  a  linen  robe, 

Into  the  water-vessel,  lay  it  right, 

And  cool  his  forehead  just  above  the  eyes, 

The  while  a  brother,  kneeling  either  side, 

Should  chafe  each  hand  and  try  to  make  it  warm,  — 

He  is  not  so  far  gone  but  he  might  speak."  20 

This  did  not  happen  in  the  outer  cave, 
Nor  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  rock, 
Where,  sixty  days  since  the  decree  was  out, 
We  had  him,  bedded  on  a  camel-skin, 
And  waited  for  his  dying  all  the  while ; 
But  in  the  midmost  grotto :  since  noon's  light 
Reached  there  a  little,  and  we  would  not  lose 
The  last  of  what  might  happen  on  his  face. 

I  at  the  head,  and  Xanthus  at  the  feet, 

With  Valens  and  the  Boy,  had  lifted  him,  30 

And  brought  him  from  the  chamber  in  the  depths, 

And  laid  him  in  the  light  where  we  might  see : 

For  certain  smiles  began  about  his  mouth, 

And  his  lids  moved,  presageful  of  the  end. 

Beyond,  and  half  way  up  the  mouth  o'  the  cave, 

The  Bactrian  convert,  having  his  desire, 

Kept  watch,  and  made  pretence  to  graze  a  goat 

That  gave  us  milk,  on  rags  of  various  herb, 

Plantain  and  quitch,  the  rocks'  shade  keeps  alive : 

So  that  if  any  thief  or  soldier  passed,  40 

(Because  the  persecution  was  aware) 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  4O; 

Yielding  the  goat  up  promptly  with  his  life, 
Such  man  might  pass  on,  joyful  at  a  prize, 
Nor  care  to  pry  into  the  cool  o'  the  cave. 
Outside  was  all  noon  and  the  burning  blue. 

"  Here  is  wine,"  answered  Xanthus,  —  dropped  a  drop ; 

I  stooped  and  placed  the  lap  of  cloth  aright, 

Then  chafed  his  right  hand,  and  the  Boy  his  left : 

But  Valens  had  bethought  him,  and  produced 

And  broke  a  ball  of  nard,  and  made  perfume.  50 

Only,  he  did  —  not  so  much  wake,  as  —  turn 

And  smile  a  little,  as  a  sleeper  does 

If  any  dear  one  call  him,  touch  his  face  — 

And  smiles  and  loves,  but  will  not  be  disturbed. 

Then  Xanthus  said  a  prayer,  but  still  he  slept : 

It  is  the  Xanthus  that  escaped  to  Rome, 

Was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the  chronicle. 

Then  the  Boy  sprang  up  from  his  knees,  and  ran, 

Stung  by  the  splendour  of  a  sudden  thought, 

And  fetched  the  seventh  plate  of  graven  lead  60 

Out  of  the  secret  chamber,  found  a  place, 

Pressing  with  finger  on  the  deeper  dints, 

And  spoke,  as  't  were  his  mouth  proclaiming  first, 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 

Whereat  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  once, 

And  sat  up  of  himself,  and  looked  at  us ; 

And  thenceforth  nobody  pronounced  a  word : 

Only,  outside,  the  Bactrian  cried  his  cry 

Like  the  lone  desert-bird  that  wears  the  ruff, 

As  signal  we  were  safe,  from  time  to  time.  7° 

First  he  said,  "  If  a  friend  declared  to  me,  ' 

This  my  son  Valens,  this  my  other  son, 

Were  James  and  Peter,  —  nay,  declared  as  well 

This  lad  was  very  John,  —  I  could  believe! 

—  Could,  for  a  moment,  doubtlessly  believe : ;" 

So  is  myself  withdrawn-  into  my  depths, 

The  soul  retreated  from  the  perished  brain 

Whence  it  was  wont  to  feel  and  use  the  world 

Thro1  these  dull  members,  done  with  long  ago. 

Yet  I  myself  remain  ;  I  feel  myself:  80 

And  there  is  nothing  lost.     Let  be,  awhile!  " 

[This  is  the  doctrine  he  was  wont  to  teach, 

How  divers  persons  witness  in  each  man, 

Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul :  first,  to  wit, 


408 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily  parts, 

Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is  what  Does, 

And  has  the  use  of  earth,  and  ends  the  man 

Downward  :  but  tending  upward  for  advice, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in  the  brain,  90 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use, 

And  feeleth,  thinketh,  willeth,  —  is  what  Knows: 

Which,  duly  tending  upward  in  its  turn, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the  first, 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 

And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what  Is  — 

And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes  it  play, 

As  that  played  off  the  first :  and,  tending  up, 

Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends  the  man  loo 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  intercourse, 

Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to  Him, 

What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is ;  three  souls,  one  man. 

I  give  the  glossa  of  Theotypas.] 
,••  — 

And  then,  "  A  stick,  once  fire  from  end  to  end ; 

Now,  ashes  save  the  tip  that  holds  a  spark! 

Yet,  blow  the  spark,  it  runs  back,  spreads  itself 

A  little  where  the  fire  was  :  thus  I  urge 

The  soul  that  served  me,  till  it  task  once  more 

What  ashes  of  my  brain  have  kept  their  shape,  no 

And  these  make  effort  on  the  last  o'  the  flesh, 

Trying  to  taste  again  the  truth  of  things  — 

(He  smiled)  —  "  their  very  superficial  truth  ; 

As  that  ye  are  my  sons,  that  it  is  long 

Since  James  and  Peter  had  release  by  death, 

And  I  am  only  he,  your  brother  John, 

Who  saw  and  heard,  and  could  remember  all. 
.  Remember  all!     It  is  not  much  to  say. 

What  if  the  truth  broke  on  me  from  above 

As  once  and  ofttimes?     Such  might  hap  again :  120 

Doubtlessly  He  might  stand  in  presence  here, 

With  head  wool-white,  eyes,  flame,  and  feet  like  brass, 

The  sword  and  the  seven  stars,  as  I  have  seen  — 

I  who  now  shudder  only  and  surmise 

'  How  did  your  brother  bear  that  sight  and  live  ? ' 

"  If  I  live  yet,  it  is  for  good,  more  love 

Thro'  me  to  men :  be  naught  but  ashes  here 

That  keep  awhile  my  semblance,  who  was  John,  — 

Still,  when  they  scatter,  there  is  left  on  earth 

No  one  alive  who  knew  (consider  this!)  130 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

—  Saw  with  his  eyes  and  handled  with  his  hands 
That  which  was  from  the  first,  the  Word  of  Life.  . 
How  will  it  be  when  none  more  saith,  •  I  saw?1 

"Such  ever  was  love's  way :  to  rise,  it  stoops. 

Since  I,  whom  Christ's  mouth  taught,  was  bidden  teach, 

I  went,  for  many  years,  about  the  world, 

Saying  '  It  was  so ;  so  I  heard  and  saw.' 

Speaking  as  the  case  asked :  and  men  believed. 

Afterward  came  the  message  to  myself 

In  Patmos  isle  ;  I  was  not  bidden  "teach,  140 

But  simply  listen,  take  a  book  and  write, 

Nor  set  down  other  than  the  given  word, 

With  nothing  left  to  my  arbitrament 

To  choose  or  change :  I  wrote,  and  men  believed. 

Then,  for  my  time  grew  brief,  no  message  more, 

No  call  to  write  again,  I  found  a  way, 

And,  reasoning  from  my  knowledge,  merely  taught 

Men  should,  for  love's  sake,  in  love's  strength,  believe ; 

Or  I  would  pen  a  letter  to  a  friend 

And  urge  the  same  as  friend,  nor  less  nor  more :  150 

Friends  said  I  reasoned  rightly,  and  believed. 

But  at  the  last,  why,  I  seemed  left  alive 

Like  a  sea-jelly  weak  on  Patmos  strand. 

To  tell  dry  sea-beach  gazers  how  I  fared 

When  there  was  mid-sea,  and  the  mighty  things; 

Left  to  repeat,  <  I  saw,  I  heard,  I  knew,' 

And  go  all  over  the  old  ground  again, 

With  Antichrist  already  in  the  world, 

And  many  Antichrists,  who  answered  prompt 

*  Am  I  not  Jasper  as  thyself  art  John?  160 

Nay,  young,  whereas  thro'  age  thou  mayest  forget : 

Wherefore,  explain,  or  how  shall  we  believe  ? ' 

I  never  thought  to  call  down  fire  on  such, 

Or,  as  in  wonderful  and  early  days. 

Pick  up  the  scorpion,  tread  the  serpent  dumb ; 

But  patient  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work  : 

Since  much  that  at  the  first,  in  deed  and  word, 

Lay  simply  and  sufficiently  exposed, 

Had  grown  (or  else  my  soul  was  grown  to  match,  170 

Fed  thro'  such  years,  familiar  with  such  light, 

Guarded  and  guided  still  to  see  and  speak) 

Of  new  significance  and  fresh  result ; 

What  first  were  guessed  as  points,  I  now  knew  stars, 

And  named  them  in  the  Gospel  I  have  writ. 

For  men  said,  '  It  is  getting  long  ago  : ' 

'Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?'  —  asked 


4io 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

These  young  ones  in  their  strength,  as  loth  to  wait, 
•Of  me  who,  when  their  sires  were  born,  was  old. 
I,  for  I  loved  them,  answered,  joyfully,  180 

Since  I  was  there,  and  helpful  in  my  age ;  . 
And,  in  the  main,  I  think  such  men  believed. 
Finally,  thus  endeavouring,  I  fell  sick, 
Ye  brought  me  here,  and  1  supposed  the  end, 
And  went  to  sleep  with  one  thought  that,  at  least, 
Tho1  the  whole  earth  should  lie  in  wickedness, 
We  had  the  truth,  might  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
Yet  now  I  wake  in  such  decrepitude 

As  I  had  slidden  down  and  fallen  afar,  * 

Past  even  the  presence  of  my  former  self,  190 

Grasping  the  while  for  stay  at  facts  which  snap, 
Till  I  am  found  away  from  my  own  world, 
Feeling  for  foot-hold  thro'  a  blank  profound, 
Along  with  unborn  people  in  strange  lands, 
Who  say  —  I  hear  said  or  conceive  they  say  — 
'Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw? 
Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see! ' 

"  And  how  shall  I  assure  them  ?     Can  they  share 

—  They,  who  have  flesh,  a  veil  of  youth  and  strength 

About  each  spirit,  that  needs  must  bide  its  time,  200 

Living  and  learning  still  as  years  assist 

Which  wear  the  thickness  thin,  and  let  man  see  — 

With  me  who  hardly  am  withheld  at  all, 

But  shudderingly,  scarce  a  shred  between, 

Lie  bare  to  the  universal  prick  of  light  ? 

Is  it  for  nothing  we  grow  old  and  weak, 

We  whom  God  loves?     When  pain  ends,  gain  ends  too. 

To  me,  that  story  —  ay,  that  Life  and  Death 

Of  which  I  wrote  '  it  was '  —  to  me,  it  is  ; 

—  Is,  here  and  now  :  I  apprehend  naught  else.  210 
Is  not  God  now  i'  the  world  His  power  first  made?      \ 

Is  not  His  love  at  issue  still  with  sin, 

Visibly  when  a  wrong  is  done  on  earth? 

Love,  wrong,  and  pain,  what  see  I  else  around? 

Yea,  and  the  Resurrection  and  Uprise 

To  the  right  hand  of  the  throne  —  what  is  it  beside, 

When  such  truth,  breaking  bounds,  o'erfloods  my  soul, 

And,  as  I  saw  the  sin  and  death,  even  so 

See  I  the  need  yet  transiency  of  both, 

The  good  and  glory  consummated  thence?  22C 

I  saw  the  Power ;  I  see  the  Love,  once  weak, 

Resume  the  Power :  and  in  this  word  '  I  see,' 

Lo,  there  is  recognized  the  Spirit  of  both 

That  moving  o'er  the  spirit  of  man,  unblinds 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT.  4II 

His  eye  and  bids  him  look.     These  are,  I  see ; 

But  ye,  the  children,  His  beloved  ones  too, 

Ye  need,  —  as  I  should  use  an  optic  glass 

I  wondered  at  erewhile,  somewhere  i'  the  world, 

It  had  been  given  a  crafty  smith  to  make ; 

A  tube,  he  turned  on  objects  brought  too  close,  230 

Lying  confusedly  insubordinate 

For  the  unassisted  eye  to  master  once : 

Look  thro1  his  tube,  at  distance  now  they  lay, 

Become  succinct,  distinct,  so  small,  so  clear! 

Just  thus,  ye  needs  must  apprehend  what  truth 

I  see,  reduced  to  plain  historic  fact, 

Diminished  into  clearness,  proved  a  point 

And  far  away :  ye  would  withdraw  your  sense 

From  out  eternity,  strain  it  upon  time, 

Then  stand  before  that  fact,  that  Life  and  Death,  240 

Stay  there  at  gaze,  till  it  dispart,  dispread, 

As  tho'  a  star  should  open  out,  all  sides, 

Grow  the  world  on  you,  as  it  is  my  world. 

"  For  life,  with  all  it  yields  of  joy  and  woe, 

And  hope  and  fear,  —  believe  the  aged  friend,  — 

Is  just  our  chance  o'  the  prize  of  learning  love, 

How  love  might  be,  hath  been  indeed,  and  is ; 

And  that  we  hold  thenceforth  to  the  uttermost 

Such  prize  despite  the  envy  of  the  world, 

And,  having  gained  truth,  keep  truth  :  that  is  all.  250 

But  see  the  double  way  wherein  we  are  led, 

How  the  soul  learns  diversely  from  the  flesh! 

With  flesh,  that  hath  so  little  time  to  stay, 

And  yields  mere  basement  for  the  soul's  emprise, 

Expect  prompt  teaching.     Helpful  was  the  light, 

And  warmth  was  cherishing  and  food  was  choice 

To  every  man's  flesh,  thousand  years  ago, 

As  now  to  yours  and  mine ;  the  body  sprang 

At  once  to  the  height,  and  stayed :  but  the  soul,  —  no! 

Since  sages  who,  this  noontide,  meditate  260 

In  Rome  or  Athens,  may  descry  some  point 

Of  the  eternal  power,  hid  yestereve  : 

And,  as  thereby  the  power's  whole  mass  extends, 

So  much  extends  the  tether  floating  o'er 

The  love  that  tops  the  might,  the  Christ  in  God. 

Then,  as  new  lessons  shall  be  learned  in  these 

Till  earth's  work  stop  and  useless  time  run  out, 

So  duly,  daily,  needs  provision  be 

For  keeping  the  soul's  prowess  possible, 

Building  new  barriers  as  the  old  decay,  270 

Saving  us  from  evasion  of  life's  proof. 


412 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


Putting  the  question  ever,  '  Does  God  love, 

And  will  ye  hold  that  truth  against  the  world?' 

Ye  know  there  needs  no  second  proof  with  good 

Gained  for  our  flesh  from  any  earthly  source : 

We  might  go  freezing,  ages,  —  give  us  fire, 

Thereafter  we  judge  fire  at  its  full  worth, 

And  guard  it  safe  thro'  every  chance,  ye  know! 

That  fable  of  Prometheus  and  his  theft, 

How  mortals  gained  Jove's  fiery  flower,  grows  old  280 

(I  have  been  used  to  hear  the  pagans  own) 

And  out  of  mind ;  but  fire,  howe'er  its  birth, 

Here  is  it,  precious  to  the  sophist  now 

Who  laughs  the  myth  of  yEschylus  to  scorn, 

As  precious  to  those  satyrs  of  his  play, 

Who  touched  it  in  gay  wonder  at  the  thing. 

While  were  it  so  with  the  soul,  —  this  gift  of  truth 

Once  grasped,  were  this  our  soul's  gain  safe,  and  sure 

To  prosper  as  the  body's  gain  is  wont,  — 

Why,  man's  probation  would  conclude,  his  earth  290 

Crumble ;  for  he  both  reasons  and  decides, 

Weighs  first,  then  chooses  r  will  he  give  up  fire 

For  gold  or  purple  once  he  knows  its  worth  ? 

Could  he  give  Christ  up  were  His  worth  as  plain?    ; 

Therefore,  I  say,  to  test  man,  the  proofs  shift, 

Nor  may  he  grasp  that  fact  like  other  fact. 

And  straightway  in  his  life  acknowledge  it, 

As,  say,  the  indubitable  bliss  of  fire. 

Sigh  ye,  '  It  had  been  easier  once  than  now?' 

To  give  you  answer  I  am  left  alive  ;  300 

Look  at  me  who  was  present  from  the  first! 

Ye  know  what  things  I  saw ;  then  came  a  test, 

My  first,  befitting  me  who  so  had  seen : 

'  Forsake  the  Christ  thou  sawest  transfigured,  Him 

Who  trod  the  sea  and  brought  the  dead  to  life  ? 

What  should  wring  this  from  thee!'  —  ye  laugh  and  ask. 

What  wrung  it?     Even  a  torchlight  and  a  noise, 

The  sudden  Roman  faces,  violent  hands, 

And  fear  of  what  the  Jews  might  do!     Just  that, 

And  it  is  written,  '  I  forsook  and  fled  ; '  310 

There  was  my  trial,  and  it  ended  thus.  • 

Ay,  but  my  soul  had  gained  its  truth,  could  grow  :    \ 

Another  year  or  two,  —  what  little  child, 

What  tender  woman  that  had  seen  no  least 

Of  all  my  sights,  but  barely  heard  them  told. 

Who  did  not  clasp  the  cross  with  a  light  laugh, 

Or  wrap  the  burning  robe  round,  thanking  God? 

Well,  was  truth  safe  for  ever,  then  ?     Not  so, 

Already  had  begun  the  silent  work 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Whereby  truth,  deadened  of  its  absolute  blaze,          \  320 

Might  need  love's  eye  to  pierce  the  o'erstretched  doubtX 

Teachers  were  busy,  whispering  '  All  is  true 

As  the  aged  ones  report ;  but  youth  can  reach 

Where  age  gropes  dimly,  weak  with  stir  and  strain, 

And  the  full  doctrine  slumbers  till  to-day.' 

Thus,  what  the  Roman's  lowered  spear  was  found, 

A  bar  to  me  who  touched  and  handled  truth, 

Now  proved  the  glozing  of  some  new  shrewd  tongue, 

This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus  or  their  mates, 

Till  imminent  was  the  outcry  '  Save1  our  Christ! '  330 

Whereon  I  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work. 

Such  work  done,  as  it  will  be,  what  comes  next? 

What  do  I  hear  say,  or  conceive  men  say, 

'Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw? 

Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see!' 


"  Is  this  indeed  a  burthen  for  late  days, 

And  may  I  help  to  bear  it  with  you  all, 

Using  my  weakness  which  becomes  your  stren^ 

For  if  a  babe  were  born  inside  this  grot, 

Grew  to  a  boy  here,  heard  us  praise  the  sun, 

Yet  had  but  yon  sole  glimmer  in  light's  place, — 

One  loving  him  and  wishful  he  should  learn, 

Would  much  rejoice  himself  was  blinded  first 

Month  by  month  here,  so  made  to  understand 

How  eyes,  born  darkling,  apprehend  amiss  : 

I  think  I  could  explain  to  such  a  child 

There  was  more  glow  outside  than  gleams  he  caught, 

Ay,  nor  need  urge  '  I  saw  it,  so  believe! ' 

It  is  a  heavy  burthen  you  shall  bear  350 

In  latter  days,  new  lands,  or  old  grown  strange, 

Left  without  me,  which  must  be  very  soon. 

What  is  the  doubt,  my  brothers?     Quick  with  it! 

I  see  you  stand  conversing,  each  new  face, 

Either  in  fields,  of  yellow  summer  eves, 

On  islets  yet  unnamed  amid  the  sea ; 

Or  pace  for  shelter  'neath  a  portico 

Out  of  the  crowd  in  some  enormous  town 

Where  now  the  larks  sing  in  a  solitude ; 

Or  muse  upon  blank  heaps  of  stone  and  sand  360 

Idly  conjectured  to  be  Ephesus ; 

And  no  one  asks  his  fellow  any  more 

'Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming? '  but 

'  Was  he  revealed  in  any  of  His  lives, 

As  Power,  as  Love,  as  .Influencing  Soul?' 


414 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

"  Quick,  for  time  presses,  tell  the  whole  mind  out, 

And  let  us  ask  and  answer  and  be  saved! 

My  book  speaks  on,  because  it  can  not  pass ; 

One  listens  quietly,  nor  scoffs  but  pleads 

;  Here  is  a  tale  of  things  done  ages  since  ;  370 

What  truth  was  ever  told  the  second  day? 

Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine,  go  for  naught. 

Remains  the  doctrine,  love ;  well,  we  must  love, 

And  what  we  love  most,  power  and  love  in  one, 

Let  us  acknowledge  on  the  record  here, 

Accepting  these  in  Christ :  must  Christ  then  be? 

Has  He  been?     Did  not  we  ourselves  make  .Him? 

Our  mind  receives  but~wRat Tt:rlol3s,  no  more. 

First  of  the  love,  then  ;  we  acknowledge  Christ  — 

A  proof  we  comprehend  His  love,  a  proof  380 

We  had  such  love  already  in  ourselves, 

Knew  first  what  else  we  should  not  recognize. 

'T  is  mere  projection  from  man's  inmost  mind, 

And.  what  he  loves,  thus  falls  reflected  back, 

Becomes  accounted  somewhat  out  of  him  ; 

He  throws  it  up  in  air,  it  drops  down  earth's, 

WTith  shape,  name,  story  added,  man's  old  way. 

How  prove  you  Christ  came  otherwise  at  least? 

Next  try  the  power :  He  made  and  rules  the  world : 

Certes  there  is  a  world  once  made,  now  ruled,  390 

Unless  things  have  been  ever  as  we  see. 

Our  sires  declared  a  charioteer's  yoked  steeds 

Brought  the  sun  up  the  east  and  down  the  west, 

Which  only  of  itself  now  rises,  sets, 

As  if  a  hand  impelled  it  and  a  will,  — 

Thus  they  long  thought,  they  who  had  will  and  hands : 

But  the  new  question's  whisper  is  distinct, 

Wherefore  must  all  force  needs  be  like  ourselves? 

We  have  the  hands,  the  will ;  what  made  and  drives 

The  sun  is  force,  is  law,  is  named,  not  known,  400 

While  will  and  love  we  do  know  ;  marks  of  these, 

Eye-witnesses  attest,  so  books  declare  — 

As  that,  to  punish  or  reward  our  race, 

The  sun  at  undue  times  arose  or  set 

Or  else  stood  still :  what  do  not  men  affirm? 

Bui  earth  requires  as  urgently  reward 

Or  punishment  to-day  as  years  ago, 

And  none  expects  the  sun  will  interpose : 

Therefore  it  was  mere  passion  and  mistake, 

Or  erring  zeal  for  right,  which  changed  the  truth.  410 

Go  back,  far,  farther,  to  the  birth  of  things ; 

Ever  the  will,  the  intelligence,  the  love,  -^X^ 

Man's!  — which  he  gives,  supposing  he  but  finds, 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

As  late  he  gave  head,  body,  hands  and  feet, 

To  help  these  in  what  forms  he  called  his  gods. 

First,  Jove's  brow,  Juno's  eyes  were  swept  away, 

But  Jove's  wrath,  Juno's  pride  continued  long! 

At  last,  will,  power,  and  love  discarded  these, 

So  law  in  turn  discards  power,  love,  and  will. 

What  proveth  God  is  otherwise  at  least?  420 

All  else,  projection  from  the  mind  of  man!' 

"  Nay,  do  not  give  me  wine,  for  I  am  strong, 
But  place  my  gospel  where  I  put  my  hands. 

"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  stop ;    \ 

That  help,  he  needed  once,  and  needs  no  more, 

Having  grown  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn : 

For  he  hath  new  deeds,  and  new  helps  to  these. 

This  imports  solely,  man  should  mount  on  each 

New  height  in  view ;  the  help  whereby  he  mounts, 

The  ladder-rung  his  foot  has  left,  may  fall,  430 

Since  all  things  suffer  change  save  God  the  Truth. 

Man  apprehends  Him  newly  at  each  stage  f 

Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  service  done ; 

And  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what  once  was  proved. 

You  stick  a  garden-plot  with  ordered  twigs 

To  show  inside  lie  germs  of  herbs  unborn, 

And  check  the  careless  step  would  spoil  their  birth ; 

But  when  herbs  wave,  the  guardian  twigs  may  go, 

Since  should  ye  doubt  of  virtues,  question  kinds, 

It  is  no  longer  for  old  twigs  ye  look,  440 

Which  proved  once  underneath  lay  store  of  seed, 

But  to  the  herb's  self,  by  what  light  ye  boast, 

For  what  fruit's  signs  are.     This  book's  fruit  is  plain, 

Nor  miracles  need  prove  it  any  more. 

Doth  the  fruit  show?     Then  miracles  bade  'ware 

At  first  of  root  and  stem,  saved  both  till  now 

From  trampling  ox,  rough  boar  and  wanton  goat. 

What  ?     Was  man  made  a  wheelwork  to  wind  up, 

And  be  discharged,  and  straight  wound  up  anew? 

No!  — grown,  his  growth  lasts ;  taught,  he  ne'er  forgets          450 

May  learn  a  thousand  things,  not  twice  the  same. 

"  This  might  be  pagan  teaching :  now  hear  mine. 

"  I  say,  that  as  the  babe,  you  feed  awhile, 

Becomes  a  boy  and  fit  to  feed  himself, 

So,  minds  at  first  must  be  spoon-fed  with  truth : 

When  they  can  eat,  babe's  nurture  is  withdrawn. 

I  fed  the  babe  whether  it  would  or  no : 

I  bid  the  boy  or  feed  himself  or  starve.       i 


416  A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

I  cried  once,  'That  ye  may  believe  in  Christ, 

Behold  this  blind  man  shall  receive  his  sight! '  460 

I  cry  now,  '  Urgest  thou,/0r  I  am  shrewd 

And  smile  at  stories  how  John's  word  could  cure  — • 

Repeat  that  miracle  and  take  my  faith  f  ' 

I  say,  that  miracle  was  duly  wrought 

When,  save  for  it,  no  faith  w;as  possible. 

Whether  a  change  were  wrought  i'  the  shows  o'  the 

world, 

Whether  the  change  came  from  our  minds  which  see 
Of  shows  o'  the  world  so  much  as  and  no  more 
Than  God  wills  for  His  purpose,  —  (what  do  I 
See  now,  suppose  you,  there  where  you  see  rock  470 

Round  us?)  —  I  know  not :  such  was  the  effect, 
So  faith  grew,  making  void  more  miracles 
Because  too  much  :  they  would  compel,  not  hel 
I  say,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  in  Christ 
Accepted  by  thy  reason,  solves  for  thee 
All  questions  in  the  earth  and  out  of  it, 
And  has  so  far  advanced  thee  to  be  wise. 
Wouldst  thou  unprove  this  to  re-prove  the  proved? 
In  life's  mere  minute,  with  power  to  use  that  proof, 
Leave  knowledge  and  revert  to  how  it  sprung?  480 

Thou  hast  it ;  use  it  and  forthwith,  or  die !  % 

"  For  I  say,  this  is  death  and  the  sole  death. 

When  a  man's  loss  comes  to  him  from  his  gain, 

Darkness  from  light,  from  knowledge  ignorance, 

And  lack  of  love  from  love  made  manifest : 

A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with  oil.  it  chokes ; 

A  stomach's  when,  surcharged  with  food,  it  starves. 

With  ignorance  was  surety  of  a  cure, 

When  man.  appalled  at  nature,  questioned  first 

'  What  if  there  lurk  a  might  behind  this  might  ?  '  490 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give. 

And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word : 

But  when  he  finds  might  still  redouble  might, 

Yet  asks,  '  Since  all  is  might,  what  use  of  will  ? ' 

—  Will,  the  one  source  of  might,  —  he  being  man 

With  a  man's  will  and  a  man's  might,  to  teach 

In  little  how  the  two  combine  in  large,  — 

That  man  has  turned  round  on  himself  and  stands : 

Which  in  the  course  of  nature  is,  to  die. 

"  And  when  man  questioned,  '  What  if  there  be  love   \  500 

Behind  the  will  and  might,  as  real  as  they?'  — 
He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 
And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word : 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 


417 


But  when,  beholding  that  love  everywhere, 

He  reasons,  '  Since  such  love  is  everywhere, 

And  since  ourselves  can  love  and  would  be  loved, 

We  ourselves  make  the  love,  and  Christ  was  not,'  — 

How  shall  ye  help  this  man  who  knows  himself, 

That  he  must  love  and  would  be  loved  again, 

Yet,  owning  his  own  love  that  proveth  Christ,  510 

Rejecteth  Christ  thro'  very  need  of  Him  ? 

Trie  lamp  o'erswims  with  oil.  the  stomach  flags 

Loaded  with  nurture,  and  that  man's  soul  dies. 

"  If  he  rejoin,  '  But  this  was  all  the  while 
A  trick  ;  the  fault  was,  first  of  all,  in  thee, 
Thy  story  of  the  places,  names  and  dates, 
Where,  when  and  how  the  ultimate  truth  had  rise, 
—  Thy  prior  truth,  at  last  discovered  none, 
Whence  now  the  second  suffers  detriment. 

What  good  of  giving  knowledge  if,  because  520 

O1  the  manner  of  the  gift,  its  profit  fail  ? 
And  why  refuse  what  modicum  of  help 
Had  stopped  the  after-doubt,  impossible 
I'  the  face  of  truth  —  truth  absolute,  uniform? 
Why  must  I  hit  of  this  and  miss  of  that, 
Distinguish  just  as  I  be  weak  or  strong, 
And  not  ask  of  thee  and  have  answer  prompt, 
Was  this  once,  was  it  not  once  ?  —  then  and  now 
And  evermore,  plain  truth  from  man  to  man. 
Is  John's  procedure  just  the  heathen  bard's?  530 

Put  question  of  his  famous  play  again 
How  for  the  ephemerals'  sake,  Jove's  fire  was  filched, 
And  carried  in  a  cane  and  brought  to  earth : 
The  fact  is  in  the  fable,  cry  the  wise, ' 
Mortals  obtained  the  boon,  so  much  is  fact, 
Tho'  fire  be  spirit  and  produced  on  earth. 
As  with  the  Titan's,  so  now  with  thy  tale : 
Why  breed  in  us  perplexity,  mistake, 
Nor  tell  the  whole  truth  in  the  proper  words? 

"  I  answer,  Have  ye  yet  to  argue  out  540 

The  very  primal  thesis,  plainest  law, 

—  Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end  to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take, 

Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to  become  ? 

Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from  old  to  new, 

From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to  fact, 

From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what  now  proves  best : 

How  could  man  have  progression  otherwise? 

Before  the  point  was  mooted  '  What  is  God?' 


4l 8  A   DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

No  savage  man  inquired  'What  am  myself?'  550 

Much  less  replied,  '  First,  last,  and  best  of  things.' 

Man  takes  that  title  now  if  he  believes 

Might  can  exist  with  neither  will  nor  love, 

In  God's  case  —  what  he  names  now  Nature's  Law  — 

While  in  himself  he  recognizes  love 

No  less  than  might  and  will :  and  rightly  takes. 

Since  if  man  prove  the  sole  existent  thing 

Where  these  combine,  whatever  their  degree, 

However  weak  the  might  or  will  or  love, 

So  they  be  found  there,  put  in  evidence, —  560 

He  is  as  surely  higher  in  the  scale 

Than  any  might  with  neither  love  nor  will, 

As  life,  apparent  in  the  poorest  midge, 

(When  the  faint  dust-speck  Hits,  ye  guess  its  wing) 

Is  marvellous  beyond  dead  Atlas'  self — 

Given  to  the  nobler  midge  for  resting-place! 

Thus,  man  proves  best  and  highest  —  God,  in  fine, 

And  thus  the  victory  leads  but  to  defeat, 

The  gain  to  loss,  best  rise  to  the  worst  fall, 

His  life  becomes  impossible,  which  is  death.  570 

"  But  if,  appealing  thencj,  he  cower,  avouch 

He  is  mere  man,  and  in  humility 

Nei.her  may  know  God  nor  mistake  himself; 

I  point  to  the  immediate  consequence 

And  say,  by  such  confession  straight  he  falls 

Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor  beast, 

Made  to  know  that  he  can  know  and  not  more : 

Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and  can  all. 

Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and  can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an  end,  580 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor  craving  more ; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside, 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact. 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 

Into  a  solid  he  mav  grasp  and  use, 

Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark  alone, 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are. 

Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  no  more  attend  his  soul 

Were  all  it  struggles  after  found  at  first  590 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute, 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 

Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side, 

Where  now  thro'  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  rest. 

Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned,  must  expect 

He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now,  know  at  first ; 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

410 

What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to-day, 

Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  misknown ; 

Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since  he  learns 

Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a  man,  goo 

Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past  self: 

First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts  to  learn, 

Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his  own  mind, 

Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned  to  law. 

God's  gift  was  that  man  should  conceive  of  truth 

And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mistake, 

As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  indeed. 

The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 

Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 

The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same ;  610 

So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout, 

Cries  ever,  '  Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see  : ' 

Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 

From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself. 

How  were  it  had  he  cried  '  I  see  no  face, 

No  breast,  no  feet  i1  the  ineffectual  clay  ? ' 

Rather  commend  him  that  he  clapped  "his  hands, 

And  laughed  '  It  is  my  shape  and  lives  again! ' 

Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on  to  truth, 

Until  yourselves  applaud  the  flesh  indeed  620 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 

Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way  be  man's! 

God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a  jet. 

Will  ye  renounce  this  pact  of  creatureship  ? 

The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no  more, 

Seemed  awhile,  then  returned  to  nothingness ; 

But  copies,  Moses  strove  to  make  thereby, 

Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time  requires : 

By  these,  make  newest  vessels,  reach  the  type! 

If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your  head,  630 

Never  to  reach  the  ultimate,  angels'  law, 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 

There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing! 

"  Such  is  the  burthen  of  the  latest  time. 

I  have  survived  to  hear  it  with  my  ears, 

Answer  it  with  my  lips  :  does  this  suffice? 

For  if  there  be  a  further  woe  than  such. 

Wherein  my  brothers  struggling  need  a  hand, 

So  long  as  any  pulse  is  left  in  mine, 

May  I  be  absent  even  longer  yet,  640 

Plucking  the  blind  ones  back  from  the  abyss, 

Tho'  I  should  tarry  a  new  hundred  years !  " 


420  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT. 

But  he  was  dead :  't  was  about  noon,  the  day 
Somewhat  declining :  we  five  buried  him 
That  eve,  and  then,  dividing,  went  five  ways, 
And  I,  disguised,  returned  to  Ephesus. 

By  this,  the  cave's  mouth  must  be  filled  with  sand. 

Valens  is  lost,  I  know  not  of  his  trace  ; 

The  Bactrian  was  but  a  wild  childish  man, 

And  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but  only  loved :  650 

So,  lest  the  memory  of  this  go  quite, 

Seeing  that  I  to-morrow  fight  the  beasts, 

I  tell  the  same  to  Phoebas,  whom  believe  ! 

For  many  look  again  to  find  that  face, 

Beloved  John's  to  whom  I  ministered, 

Somewhere  in  life  about  the  world ;  they  err : 

Either  mistaking  what  was  darkly  spoke 

At  ending  of  his  book,  as  he  relates, 

Or  misconceiving  somewhat  of  this  speech 

Scattered  from  mouth  to  mouth,  as  I  suppose.  660 

Believe  ye  will  not  see  him  any  more 

About  the  world  with  his  divine  regard! 

For  all  was  as  I  say,  and  now  the  man 

Lies  as  he  lay  once,  breast  to  breast  with  God. 


[Cerinthus  read  and  mused ;  one  added  this : 

"  It  Christ,  as  thou  affirmest,  be  of  men 

Mere  man,  the  first  and  best  but  nothing  more,— 

Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He  was, 

Now  and  forever,  wretchedest  of  all. 

For  see  ;  Himsalf  conceived  of  life  as  love,  670 

Conceived  of  love  as  what  must  enter  in, 

Fill  up,  make  one  with  His  each  soul  He  loved: 

Thus  much  for  man's  joy,  all  men's  joy  for  Him. 

Well,  He  is  gone,  thou  sayest,  to  fit  reward. 

But  by  this  time  are  many  souls  set  free, 

And  very  many  still  retained  alive  : 

Nay,  should  His  coming  be  delayed  awhile, 

Say,  ten  years  longer  (twelve  years,  some  compute) 

See  if,  for  every  finger  of  thy  hands. 

There  be  not  found,  that  day  the  world  shall  end,  680 

Hundreds  of  souls,  each  holding  by  Christ's  word 

That  He  will  grow  incorporate  with  all, 

With  me  as  Pamphylax,  with  him  as  John, 

Groom  for  each  bride!     Can  a  mere  man  do  this? 

Yet  Christ  saith,  this  He  lived  and  died  to  do. 


FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES.  42I 

Call  Christ,  then,  the  illimitable  God,  // 
Or  lost!" 

But 't  was  Cerinthus  that  is  lost.] 


FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES. 


HERE'S  my  case.     Of  old  I  used  to  love  him, 
This  same  unseen  friend,  before  I  knew : 
Dream  there  was  none  like  him.  none  above  him,  - 
Wake  to  hope  and  trust  my  dream  was  true. 


II. 


Loved  I  not  his  letters  full  of  beauty? 

Not  his  actions  famous  far  and  wide? 
Absent,  he  would  know  I  vowed  him  duty, 

Present,  he  would  find  me  at  his  side. 


Pleasant  fancy!  for  I  had  but  letters, 

Only  knew  of  actions  by  hearsay :  IP 

He  himself  was  busied  with  my  betters ; 

What  of  that  ?    My  turn  must  come  some  day. 

IV. 

"Some  day"  proving  —  no  day!     Here  's  the  puzzle. 

Passed  and  passed  my  turn  is.     Why  complain? 
He  's  so  busied !     If  I  could  but  muzzle 

People's  foolish  mouths  that  give  me  pain! 

v. 

"  Letters  ?  "  (hear  them !)     "  You  a  judge  of  writing? 

Ask  the  experts!  — How  they  shake  the  head 
O'er  these  characters,  your  tnend's  inditing — 

Call  them  forgery  from  A  to  Z!  20 

VI. 

a  Actions  ?    Where  1s  your  certain  proof"  (they  bother) 

"  He,  of  all  you  find  so  great  and  good, 
He,  he  only,  claims  this,  that,  the  other 

Action  —  claimed  by  men,  a  multitude  ?  " 


422  ARTEMIS   PROLOGIZES. 


VII. 


I  can  simply  wish  I  might  refute  you, 

Wish  my  friend  would,  —  by  a  word,  a  wink,  — 

Bid  me  stop  that  foolish  mouth,  —  you  brute  you! 
He  keeps  absent,  —  why,  I  can  not  think. 


vm. 


Never  mind!     Tho'  foolishness  may  flout  me, 

One  thing  's  sure  enough  :  \  is  neither  frost,  30 

No,  nor  fire,  shall  freeze  or  burn  from  out  me 

Thanks  for  truth  —  tho'  falsehood,  gained  —  tho1  lost 


IX. 


All  my  days,  I  '11  go  the  softlier,  sadlier, 

For  that  dream's  sake!     How  forget  the  thrill 

Thro'  and  thro'  me  as  I  thought  "  The  gladlier 
Lives  my  friend  because  I  love  him  still!  " 


x. 


Ah,  but  there  's  a  menace  some  one  utters! 

"What  and  if  your  friend  at  home  play  tricks? 
Peep  at  hide-and-seek  behind  the  shutters? 

Mean  your  eyes  should  pierce  thro'  solid  bricks?  40 


XI. 


"  What  and  if  he.  frowning,  wake  you,  dreamy? 

Lay  on  you  the  blame  that  bricks  —  conceal? 
Say  '  At  least  I  saw  ivho  did  not  see  me. 

Does  see  now,  and  presently  shall  feef  f" 


XII. 


"Why,  that  makes  your  friend  a  monster! "    say  you: 
"  Had  his  house  no  window  ?     At  first  nod, 

Would  you  not  have  hailed  him?"     Hush,  I  pray  you! 
What  if  this  friend  happen  to  be  —  God? 


ARTEMIS  PROLOGIZES. 

I   AM  a  goddess  of  the  ambrosial  courts, 
And  save  by  Here,  Queen  of  Pride,  surpassed 
By  none  whose  temples  whiten  this  the  world. 
Thro'  heaven  I  roll  my  lucid  moon  along ; 


ARTEMIS  PROLOGIZES.  A^-, 

4^j 

1  shed  in  hell  o'er  my  pale  people  peace ; 

On  earth  I,  caring  for  the  creatures,  guard 

Each  pregnant  yellow  wolf  and  fox-bitch  sleek, 

And  every  feathered  mother's  callow  brood, 

And  all  that  love  green  haunts  and  loneliness. 
)f  men,  the  chaste  adore  me,  hanging  crowns  10 

Of  poppies  red  to  blackness,  bell  and  stem, 

Upon  my  image  at  Athenai  here ; 

And  this  dead  youth,  Asclepios  bends  above, 

Was  dearest  to  me.     He,  my  buskined  step 

To  follow  thro'  the  wild-wood  leafy  ways, 

And  chase  the  panting  stag,  or  swift  with  darts 

Stop  the  swift  ounce,  or  lay  the  leopard  low. 

Neglected  homage  to  another  god : 

Whence  Aphrodite,  by  no  midnight  smoke 

Of  tapers  lulled,  in  jealousy  despatched  20 

A  noisome  lust  that,  as  the  gadbee  stings, 

Possessed  his  stepdame  Phaidra  for  himself 

The  son  of  Theseus  her  great  absent  spouse. 

Hippolutos  exclaiming  in  his  rage 

Against  the  fury  of  the  Queen,  she  judged 

Life  insupportable  ;  and,  pricked  at  heart 

An  Amazonian  stranger's  race  should  dare 
To  scorn  her,  perished  by  the  murderous  cord : 

Yet,  ere  she  perished,  blasted  in  a  scroll 

The  fame  o\  him  her  swerving  made  not  swerve.  30 

And  Theseus  read,  returning,  and  believed, 

And  exiled,  in  the  blindness  of  his  wrath, 

The  man  without  a  crime  who,  last  as  first, 

Loyal,  divulged  not  to  his  sire  the  truth. 

Now  Theseus  from  Poseidon  had  obtained 

That  of  his  wishes  should  be1  granted  three, 

And  one  he  imprecated  straight —  "Alive 

May  ne'er  Hippolutos  reach  other  lands! " 

Poseidon  heard,  ai  ai !     And  scarce  the  prince 

Had  stepped  into  the  fixed  boots  of  the  car  40 

That  give  the  feet  stay  against  the  strength 

Of  the  Henetian  horses,  and  around 

His  body  flung  the  rein,  and  urged  their  speed 

Along  the  rocks  and  shingles  of  the  shore, 

When  from  the  gaping  wave  a  monster  flung 

His  obscene  body  in  the  coursers'  path. 

These,  mad  with  terror,  as  the  sea-bull  sprawled 

Wallowing  about  their  feet,  lost  care  of  him 

That  reared  them ;  and  the  master-chariot-pole 

Snapping  beneath  their  plunges  like  a  reed,  50 

Hippolutos,  whose  feet  were  trammeled  fast, 

Was  yet  dragged  forward  by  the  circling  rein 


424 


ARTEMIS    PROLOGIZES. 

Which  either  hand  directed  ;  nor  they  quenched 

The  frenzy  of  their  flight  before  each  trace, 

Wheel-spoke  and  splinter  of  the  woeful  car, 

Each  boulder-stone,  sharp  stub  and  spiny  shell, 

Huge  fish-bone  wrecked  and  wreathed  amid  the  sands 

On  that  detested  beach,  was  bright  with  blood 

And  morsels  of  his  flesh  :  then  fell  the  steeds 

Head-foremost,  crashing  in  their  mooned  fronts,  60 

Shivering  with  sweat,  each  white  eye  horror-fixed. 

His  people,  who  had  witnessed  all  afar, 

Bore  back  the  ruins  of  Hippolutos. 

But  when  his  sire,  too  swoln  with  pride,  rejoiced 

(Indomitable  as  a  man  foredoomed) 

That  vast  Poseidon  had  fulfilled  his  prayer, 

I,  in  a  flood  of  glory  visible, 

Stood  o'er  my  dying  votary  and,  deed 

By  deed,  revealed,  as  all  took  place,  the  truth. 

Then  Theseus  lay  the  woefullest  of  men,  70 

And  worthily ;  but  ere  the  death-veils  hid 

His  face,  the  murdered  prince  full  pardon  breathed 

To  his  rash  sire.     Whereat  Athenai  wails. 

So  I,  who  ne'er  forsake  my  votaries, 
Lest  in  the  cross-way  none  the  honey-cake 
Should  tender,  nor  pour  out  the  dog's  hot  life ; 
Lest  at  my  fane  the  priests  disconsolate 
Should  dress  my  image  with  some  faded  poor 
Few  crowns,  made  favours  of,  nor  dare  object 
Such  slackness  to  my  worshipers  who  turn  80 

Elsewhere  the  trusting  heart  and  loaded  hand, 
As  they  had  climbed  Olumpos  to  report 
Of  Artemis  and  nowhere  found  her  throne  — 
I  interposed :  and,  this  eventful  night,  — 
(While  round  the  funeral  pyre  the  populace 
Stood  with  fierce  light  on  their  black  robes  which  bound 
Each  sobbing  head,  while  yet  their  hair  they  clipped 
O'er  the  dead  body  of  their  withered  prince, 
And,  in  his  palace,  Theseus  prostrated 

On  the  cold  hearth,  his  brow  cold  as  the  slab  90 

'T  was  bruised  on,  groaned  away  the  heavy  grief — 
As  the  pyre  fell,  and  down  the  cross-logs  crashed 
Sending  a  crowd  of  sparkles  thro'  the  night, 
And  the  gay  fire,  elate  with  mastery, 
Towered  like  a  serpent  o'er  the  clotted  jars 
Of  wine,  dissolving  oils  and  frankincense, 
And  splendid  gums  like  gold),  —  my  potency 
Conveyed  the  perished  man  to  my  retreat 
In  the  thrice-venerable  forest  here. 


PHEIDIPPWES. 

425 

And  this  white-bearded  sage  who  squeezes  now  JOo 

The  berried  plant,  is  Phoibos1  son  of  fame, 

Asclepios,  whom  my  radiant  brother  taught 

The  doctrine  of  each  herb  and  flower  and  root, 

To  know  their  secret'st  virtue  and  express 

The  saving  soul  of  all :  who  so  has  soothed 

With  lavers  the  torn  brow  and  murdered  cheeks, 

Composed  the  hair  and  brought  its  gloss  again, 

And  called  the  red  bloom  to  the  pale  skin  back, 

And  laid  the  strips  and  jagged  ends  of  flesh 

Even  once  more,  and  slacked  the  sinew's  knot  no 

Of  every  tortured  limb  —  that  now  he  lies 

As  if  mere  sleep  possessed  him  underneath 

These  interwoven  oaks  and  pines.     Oh  cheer, 

Divine  presenter  of  the  healing  rod, 

Thy  snake,  with  ardent  throat  and  lulling  eye, 

Twines  his  lithe  spires  around !     I  say,  much  cheer! 

Proceed  thou  with  thy  wisest  pharmacies ! 

And  ye,  white  crowd  of  woodland  sister-nymphs, 

Ply  as  the  sage  directs,  these  buds  and  leaves 

That  strew  the  turf  around  the  twain!     While  I  120 

Await,  in  fitting  silence,  the  event. 


PHEIDIPPIDES. 

\aiptTf,    VlKtofid'. 

FIRST  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock! 
Gods  of  my  birthplace,  daemons  and  heroes,  honour  to  all! 
Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron,  co-equal  in  praise 
—  Ay,  with  Zeus  the  Defender,  with  Her  of  the  aegis  and  spear! 
Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,  praised  be  your  peer, 
Now,  henceforth  and  forever,  —  O  latest  to  whom  I  upraise 
Hand  and  heart  and  voice!     For  Athens,  leave  pasture  and  flock! 
Present  to  help,  potent  to  save,  Pan  —  patron  i  call! 

Archons  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,  see,  I  return! 

See,  't  is  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spectre  that  speaks!  10 

Crowned  with  the  myrtle,  did  you  command  me,  Athens  and  you, 

"  Run,  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta  for  aid! 

Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She?"      Your  command  I 

obeyed, 

Ran  and  raced :  like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire  runs  through, 
Was  the  space  between  city  and  city :  two  day.s,  two  nights  did  I  burn 
Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 


426 


PHEIDIPPIDES. 


Into  their  midst  I  broke:    breath  served  but  for  "Persia  has  come. 
Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves'-tribute,  water  and  earth  ; 
Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria  —  but  Athens,  shall  Athens  sink, 
Drop  into  dust  and  die  —  the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly  die,  20 

Die  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta,  the  stupid,  the  stander-by  ? 
Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch  o'er  destruction's 

brink  ? 
How,  —  when?     No  care  for  my  limbs!  —  there  's  lightning  in  all  and 

some  — 
Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it  birth!" 

O  my  Athens  —  Sparta  love  thee  ?     Did  Sparta  respond  ? 
Every  face  of  her  leered  in  a  furrow  of  envy,  mistrust, 
Malice,  —  each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter  of  gratified  hate! 
Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast  for  excuses.     I  stood 
Quivering,  —  the  limbs   of  me  fretting  as  fire  frets,  an  inch  from  dry 

wood : 

"Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still  they  debate?  30 

Thunder,  thou  Zeus!     Athene,  are  Spartans  a  quarry  beyond 
Swing  of  thy  spear?     Phoibos  and  Artemis,  clang  them  '  Ye  must '!  " 

No  bolt  launched  from  Olumpos!     Lo,  their  answer  at  last! 

"  Has  Persia  come,  —  does  Athens  ask  aid,  —  may  Sparta  befriend  ? 

Nowise  precipitate  judgment  —  too  weighty  the  issue  at  stake! 

Count  we  no  time  lost  time  which  lags  thro'  respect  to  the  Gods ! 

Ponder  that  precept  of  old,  '  No  warfare,  whatever  the  odds 

In  your  favour,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half-orbed,  is  unable  to  take 

Full-circle  her  state  in  the  sky ! '     Already  she  rounds  to  it  fast : 

Athens  must  wait,  patient  as  we  —  who  judgment  suspend."  40 

Athens,  —  except  for  that  sparkle,  —  thy  name,  I  had  mouldered  to  ash! 
That  sent  a  blaze  thro'  my  blood ;  off,  off  and  away  was  I  back, 
—  Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose  on  the  false  and  the  vile ! 
Yet  "  O  Gods  of  my  land! "  I  cried,  as  each  hillock  and  plain, 
Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rushing  past  them  again, 
"  Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of  honours  we  paid  you  erewhile? 
Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,  the  fulsome  libation!     Too  rash 
Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  service  so  slack! 

"  Oak  and  olive  and  bay,  —  I  bid  you  cease  to  emvreathe 

Brows  made  bold  by  your  leaf  !     Fade  at  the  Persian's  foot,  50 

You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should  never  adorn  a  slave! 

Rather  I  hail  thee,  Parnes,  —  trust  to  thy  wild  waste  tract! 

Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain!     What  matter  if  slacked 

My  speed  may  hardly  be,  for  homage  to  crag  and  to  cave 

No  deity  deigns  to  drape  with  verdure?  —  at  least  I  can  breathe, 

Fear  in  thee  no  fraud  from  the  blind,  no  lie  from  the  mute! " 


PHEIDIPPIDES.  427 

Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over  Fames'  ridge ; 

Gully  and  gap  I  clambered  and  cleared  till,  sudden,  a  bar 

Jutted,  a  stoppage  of  stone  against  me,  blocking  the  way. 

Right!  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse,  the  fissure  across :  60 

"  Where  I  could  enter,  there  I  depart  by!     Night  in  the  fosse? 

Athens  to  aid?     Tho1  the  dive  were  thro1  Erebos,  thus  I  obev- 

Out  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely  arise!     No  bridge 

Better!"  —  when  — ha!  what  was  it  I  came  on,  of  wonders  that  are? 

There,  in  the  cool  of  a  cleft,  sat  he  —  majestical  Pan ! 

Ivy  drooped  wanton,  kissed  his  head,  moss  cushioned  his  hoof; 

All  the  great  God  was  good  in  the  eyes  grave-kindly  —  the  curl 

Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a  mortars'awe 

As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the  goat-thighs  grand  I  saw. 

"  Halt,  Pheidippides ! ''  —  halt  I  did,  my  brain  of  a  whirl :  70 

"  Hither  to  me !     Why  pale  in  my  presence  ?  "  he  gracious  began  : 

"  How  is  it,  —  Athens,  only  in  Hellas,  holds,  me  aloof? 

"Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,  makes  me  no  feast! 

Wherefore  ?     Than  I  what  godship  to  Athens  more  helpful  of  old  ? 

Ay,  and  still,  and  forever  her  friend!     Test  Pan,  trust  me! 

Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,  laugh  Persia  to  scorn,  have  faith 

In  the   temples   and  tombs!     Go,  say  to  Athens,   'The   Goat-God 

saith : 

When  Persia  —  so  much  as  strews  not  the  soil  —  is  cast  in  the  sea, 
Then  praise  Pan  who  fought  in  the  ranks  with  your  most  and  least, 
Goat-thigh  to  greaved-thigh,  made  one  cause  with  the  free  and  the 

bold!'  80 

"  Say  Pan  saith  :  '  Let  this,  foreshowing  the  place,  be  the  pledge!"1 
(Gay,  the  liberal  hand  held  out  this  herbage  I  bear 
—  Fennel,  —  I  grasped  it  a-tremble  with  dew  —  whatever  it  bode), 
"While,  as  for  thee  ..."    But  enough!     He  was  gone.     If  I  ran 

hitherto  — 

Be  sure  that  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran  no  longer,  but  flew. 
Parnes  to  Athens  —  earth  no  more,  the  air  was  my  road ; 
Here   am   I   back.      Praise  Pan,  we  stand   no  more  on  the  razor's 

edge! 
Pan  for  Athens,  Pan  for  me!  I  too  have  a  guerdon  rare! 


Then  spoke  Miltiades.     "  And  thee,  best  runner  of  Greece, 
Whose  limbs  did  duty  indeed,  — what  gift  is  promised  thyself?  90 

Tell  it  us  straightway,  —  Athens  the  mother  demands  of  her  son!" 
Rosily  blushed  the  youth  :  he  paused  :  but,  lifting  at  length 
His  eyes  from  the  'ground,  it  seemed  as  he  gathered  the  rest  of  his 
strength 


42$ 


THE  PATRIOT. 


Into  the  utterance  —  "Pan  spoke  thus  :  'For  what  thou  hast  done 
Count  on  a  worthy  reward!     Henceforth  be  allowed  thee  release 
From  the  racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in  praise  or  in  pelf  ! ' 

"  I  am  bold  to  believe,  Pan  means  reward  the  most  to  my  mind! 
Fight  I  shall,  with  our  foremost,  wherever  this  fennel  may  grow,  — 
Pound —  Pan  helping  us  —  Persia  to  dust,  and,  under  the  deep, 
Whelm  her  away  forever ;  and  then,  —  no  Athens  to  save, — 
Marry  a  certain  maid,  I  know  keeps  faith  to  the  brave,  — 
Hie  to  my  house  and  home :  and,  when  my  children  shall  creep 
Close  to  my  knees,  —  recount  how  the  God  was  awful  yet  kind. 
Promised  their  sire  reward  to  the  full  —  rewarding  him  —  so!  " 


Unforeseeing  one!     Yes,  he  fought  on  the  Marathon  day: 

So,  when  Persia  was  dust,  all  cried  '-To  Akropolis! 

Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more!  the  meed  is  thy  due! 

4  A  "hens  is  saved,  thank  Pan,1  go  shout!"     He  flung  down  his  shield, 

Ran  like  fire  once  more :  and  the  space  'twixt  the  Fennel-field 

And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which  a  fire  runs  through,       1 10 

Till  in  he  broke:  "Rejoice,  we  conquer!"     Like  wine  thro'  clay, 

Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died  —  the  bliss! 

So,  to  this  day,  when  friend  meets  friend,  the  word  of  salute 

Is  still  "Rejoice!"  —  his  word  which  brought  rejoicing  indeed. 

So  is  Pheidippides  happy  forever,  —  the  noble  strong  man 

Who  could  race  like  a  god,  bear  the  face  of  a  god,  whom  a  god  loved  so 

well, 

He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was  suffered  to  tell 
Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,  but,  gloriously  as  he  began, 
So  to  end  gloriously  —  once  to  shout,  thereafter  be  mute  : 
"Athens  is  saved  !"  —  Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout  for  his  meed.   120 


THE   PATRIOT. 

AN   OLD   STORY. 
I. 

IT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 
With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad : 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 


POPULARITY. 


II. 


The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd  and  cries. 

Had  I  said,  "Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels  — 
But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies ! " 

They  had  answered  "  And  afterward,  what  else?"  10 


in. 


Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep! 

Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone : 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 


There  's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now — 

Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set ; 
For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 

At  the  Shambles'  Gate  —  or,  better  yet, 
By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow.  20 

v. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 

A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind  ; 
And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 

For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 


Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go! 

In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"  Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me?"  —  God  might  question;  now  instead, 
T  is  God  shall  repay :  I  am  safer  so. 


POPULARITY. 


STAND  still,  true  poet  that  you  are ! 
I  know  you ;  let  me  try  and  draw  you. 
Some  night  you  '11  fail  us  :  when  afar 

You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 
Knew  you,  and  named  a  star! 


POPULARITY. 

II. 

My  star,  God's  glow-worm !    Why  extend 
That  loving  hand  of  his  which  leads  you, 

Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 

Of  this  dark  world,  unless  he  needs  you, 

Just  saves  your  light  to  spend  ?  10 

in. 

His  clenched  hand  shall  unclose  at  last, 

I  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty : 
My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 

Accepts  the  coming  ages'  duty, 
Their  present  for  this  past. 

IV. 

That  day,  the  earth's  feast-master's  brow 

Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  raising ; 
"Others  give  best  at  first,  but  thou 

For  ever  set'st  our  table  praising, 
Keep'st  the  good  wine  till  now! "  20 

v. 

• 

Meantime,  I  '11  draw  you  as  you  stand, 

With  few  or  none  to  watch  and  wonder : 
I  '11  say  —  a  fisher,  on  the  sand 

By  Tyre  the  old,  with  ocean-plunder, 
A  netful,  brought  to  land. 

VI. 

Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 

Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 
Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles, 

And  coloured  like  Astarte's  eyes 
Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells  ?  30 


VII. 

And  each  bystander  of  them  all 
Could  criticize,  and  quote  tradition 

How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some  pall 
—  To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's  ambition ; 

Worth  sceptre,  crown  and  bail. 


POPULARITY, 


VIII. 


Yet  there  's  the  dye,  in  that  rough  mesh, 

The  sea  has  only  just  o'er-whispered  ! 
Live  whelks,  each  lip's  beard  dripping  fresh, 

As  if  they  still  the  water's  lisp  heard 
Thro'  foam  the  rock-weeds  thresh.  40 


IX. 


Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 

Such  hangings  for  his  cedar-house, 

That,  when  gold-robed  he  took  the  throne 
In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse 

Might  swear  his  presence  shone 


x. 


Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 

Which  burns  deep  in  the  blue-bell's  womb 

What  time,  with  ardours  manifold, 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom, 

Drunken  and  overbold.  50 


XI. 


Mere  conchs  !  not  fit  for  warp  or  woof  ! 

Till  cunning  come  to  pound  and  squeeze 
And  clarify,  —  refine  to  proof 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees, 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 


XII. 


And  there  's  the  extract,  flasked  and  fine, 

And  priced  and  saleable  at  last! 
And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes  and  Nokes  combine 

To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 
Put  blue  into  their  line.  60 


XIII. 


Hobbs  hints  blue,  —  straight  he  turtle  eats  : 
Nobbs  prints  blue,  —  claret  crowns  his  cup  : 

Nokes  outdares  Stokes  in  azure  feats,  — 
Both  gorge.     Who  fished  the  murex  up? 

What  porridge  had  John  Keats? 


432  PISGAH-SIGHTS. 


PISGAH-SIGHTS.     I. 


I. 

OVER  the  ball  of  it, 
Peering  and  prying, 
How  I  see  all  of  it, 

Life  there,  outlying! 
Roughness  and  smoothness, 

Shine  and  defilement, 
Grace  and  uncouthness ; 
One  reconcilement. 

n. 

Orbed  as  appointed, 

Sister  with  brother  jo 

Joins,  ne'er  disjointed 

One  from  the  other. 
All 's  lend-and-borrow ; 

Good,  see,  wants  evil, 
Jcy  demands  sorrow, 

Angel  weds  devil ! 

m. 

"Which  things  must  —  why  be?" 

Vain  our  endeavour! 
So  shall  things  aye  be 

As  they  were  ever.  30 

"Such  things  should  so  be!" 

Sage  our  desistence ! 
Rough-smooth  let  globe  be, 

Mixed  —  man's  existence! 


IV. 

Man  —  wise  and  foolish, 

Lover  and  scorner, 
Docile  and  mulish  — 

Keep  each  his  corner! 
Honey  yet  gall  of  it! 

There  's  the  life  lying,  30 

And  I  see  all  of  it, 

Only,  I  'm  dying! 


PISGAH-SIGHTS. 
PISGAH-SIGHTS.     2. 


COULD  I  but  live  again, 
Twice  my  life  over, 
Would  I  once  strive  again? 

Would  not  I  cover 
Quietly  all  of  it— 

Greed  and  ambition  — 
So,  from  the  pall  of  it, 
Pass  to  fruition  ? 


H. 

"Soft!"  Pd  say,  "Soul  mine! 

Three-score  and  ten  years,  10 

Let  the  blind  mole  mine 

Digging  out  deniers! 
Let  the  dazed  hawk  soar, 

Claim  the  sun's  rights  too! 
Turf 't  is  thy  walk 's  o'er, 

Foliage  thy  flight 's  to." 

in. 

Only  a  learner, 

Quick  one  or  slow  one> 
Just  a  discerner, 

I  would  teach  no  one.  2u 

I  am  earth's  native : 

No  re-arranging  it! 
/be  creative, 

Chopping  and  changing  it? 

IV. 

March,  men,  my  fellows! 

Those  who,  above  me, 
(Distance  so  mellows) 

Fancy  you  love  me  : 
Those  who,  below  me, 

(Distance  makes  great  so)  30 

Free  to  forego  me, 

Fancy  you  hate  so 

99 


434  PISGAH-SIGHTS. 


v. 

Praising,  reviling, 

Worst  head  and  best  head, 
Past  me  defiling, 

Never  arrested, 
Wanters,  abounders, 

March,  in  gay  mixture, 
Men,  my  surrounders! 

I  am  the  fixture!  40 


So  shall  I  fear  thee, 

Mightiness  yonder! 
Mock-sun — more  near  thee, 

What  is  to  wonder? 
So  shall  I  love  thee, 

Down  in  the  dark,  —  lest 
Glowworm  I  prove  thee, 

Star  that  now  sparkiest! 


PISGAH-SIGHTS.     3. 

I. 

GOOD,  to  forgive : 
Best,  to  forget! 
Living,  we  fret ; 
Dying,  we  live. 
Fretless  and  free, 

Soul,  clap  thy  pinion! 
Earth  have  dominion, 
Body,  o'er  thee! 

II. 

Wander  at  will, 

Dav  after  day,  —  »o 

Wander  away, 
Wandering  still  — 
Soul  that  canst  soar! 

Body  may  slumber : 

Body  shall  cumber 
Soul-flight  no  more. 


AT  THE   "MERMAID" 

435 

in. 

Waft  of  soul's  wing! 

What  lies  above  ? 

Sunshine  and  Love, 

Skyblue  and  Spring!  2O 

Body  hides  —  where  ? 

Ferns  of  all  feather, 

Mosses  and  heather, 
Yours  be  the  care! 


AT  THE   "MERMAID." 

The  figure  that  them  here  seest  .  .  Tut ! 
Was  it  for  gentle  Shakespeare  put? 

B.  JONSON.     (Adapted.} 


I  —  "  NEXT  Poet  ?  "    No,  my  hearties, 
I  nor  am  nor  fain  would  be! 
Choose  your  chiefs  and  pick  your  parties, 

Not  one  soul  revolt  to  me! 
I,  forsooth,  sow  song-sedition? 
I,  a  schism  in  verse  provoke? 
I,  blown  up  by  bard's  ambition, 

Burst  —  your  bubble-king  ?     You  joke. 


Come,  be  grave !    The  sherris  mantling 

Still  about  each  mouth,  mayhap,  10 

Breeds  you  insight — just  a  scantling  — 

Brings  me  truth  out  —  just  a  scrap. 
Look  and  tell  me!     Written,  spoken, 

Here  's  my  life-long  work :  and  where 
—  Where  's  your  warrant  or  my  token 

I  'm  the  dead  king's  son  and  heir? 

ill. 

Here  's  my  work  :  does  work  discover — 

What  was  rest  from  work  —  my  life  ? 
Did  I  live  man's  hater,  lover? 

Leave  the  world  at  peace,  at  strife?  20 


436  AT  THE  "MERMAID." 

Call  earth  ugliness  or  beauty  ? 

See  things  there  in  large  or  small? 
Use  to  pay  its  Lord  my  duty  ? 

Use  to  own  a  lord  at  all  ? 


rv. 

Blank  of  such  a  record,  truly, 

Here  's  the  work  I  hand,-  this  scroll, 
Yours  to  take  or  leave ;  as  duly, 

Mine  remains  the  unproffered  soul. 
So  much,  no  whit  more,  my  debtors  — 

How  should  one  like  me  lay  claim  30 

To  that  largess  elders,  betters 

Sell  you  cheap  their  souls  for  —  fame? 

v. 

Which  of  you  did  I  enable 

Once  to  slip  inside  my  breast, 
There  to  catalogue  and  label 

What  I  like  least,  what  love  best, 
Hope  and  fear,  believe  and  doubt  of, 

Seek  and  shun,  respect  —  deride? 
Who  has  right  to  make  a  rout  of 

Rarities  he  found  inside  ?  4.0 

VI. 

Rarities  or,  as  he  'd  rather, ' 

Rubbish  such  as  stocks  his  own : 
Need  and  greed  (O  strange)  the  Father 

Fashioned  not  for  him  alone ! 
Whence  —  the  comfort  set  a-strutting, 

Whence  —  the  outcry  "  Haste,  behold ! 
Bard's  breast  open  wide,  past  shutting, 

Shows  what  brass  we  took  for  gold!-' 

VII. 

Friends,  I  doubt  not  he  'd  display  you 

Brass  —  myself  call  orichalc,  —  50 

Furnish  much  amusement ;  pray  you 

Therefore,  be  content  I  balk 
Him  and  you,  and  bar  my  portal! 

Here  's  my  work  outside  ;  opine 
What 's  inside  me  mean  and  mortal! 

Take  your  pleasure,  leave  me  mine' 


AT  THE  "MERMAID." 


VIII. 

Which  is  —  not  to  buy  your  laurel 

As  last  king  did,  nothing  loth. 
Tale  adorned  and  pointed  moral 

Gained  him  praise  and  pity  both.  60 

Out  rushed  sighs  and  groans'  by  dozens, 

Forth  by  scores  oaths,  curses  flew  : 
Proving  you  were  cater-cousins, 

Kith  and  kindred,  king  and  you! 

IX. 

Whereas  do  I  ne'er  so  little 

(Thanks  to  sherris)  leave  ajar 
Bosom's  gate  —  no  jot  nor  tittle 

Grow  we  nearer  than  we  are. 
Sinning,  sorrowing,  despairing, 

Body-ruined,  spirit-wrecked,  —  70 

Should  I  give  my  woes  an  airing,  — 

Where  's  one  plague  that  claims  respect? 

x. 

Have  you  found  your  life  distasteful? 

My  life  did  and  does  smack  sweet. 
Was  your  youth  of  pleasure  wasteful? 

Mine  I  saved  and  hold  complete. 
Do  your  joys  with  age  diminish? 

When  mine  fail  me,  I  '11  complain. 
Must  in  death  your  daylight  finish? 

My  sun  sets  to  rise  again.  80 

XI. 

What,  like  you,  he  proved  —  your  Pilgrim  — 

This  our  world  of  wilderness, 
Earth  still  gray  and  heaven  still  grim, 

Not  a  hand  there  his  might  press, 
Not  a  heart  his  own  might  throb  to, 

Men  all  rogues  and  women  —  say, 
Dolls  which  boys'  heads  duck  and  bob  to, 

Grown  folk  drop  or  throw  away? 

xn. 

My  experience  being  other, 

How  should  I  contribute  verse  90 

Worthy  of  your  king  and  brother? 

Balaam-like  I  bless,  not  curse. 


438  AT  THE  "MERMAID? 

I  find  earth  not  gray  but  rosy, 
Heaven  not  grim  but  fair  of  hue. 

Do  I  stoop  ?     I  pluck  a  posy. 

Do  I  stand  and  stare  ?    All 's  blue. 


XIII. 

Doubtless  I  am  pushed  and  shoved  by 

Rogues  and  fools  enough  :  the  more 
Good  luck  mine,  I  love,  am  loved  by 

Some  few  honest  to  the  core.  loo 

Scan  the  near  high,  scout  the  far  low! 

"  But  the  low  come  close  :  "  what  then  ? 
Simpletons  ?     My  match  is  Marlowe ; 

Sciolists?    My  mate  is  Ben. 

xrv. 

Womankind  —  "the  cat-like  nature, 

False  and  fickle,  vain  and  weak"  — 
What  of  this  sad  nomenclature 

Suits  my  tongue,  if  I  must  speak? 
Does  the  sex  invite,  repulse  so, 

Tempt,  betray,  by  fits  and  starts?  iio 

So  becalm  but  to  convulse  so, 

Decking  heads  and  breaking  hearts? 

xv. 

Well  may  you  blaspheme  at  fortune! 

I  "threw  Venus"  (Ben,  expound!) 
Never  did  I  need  importune 

Her,  of  all  the  Olympian  round. 
Blessings  on  my  benefactress! 

Cursings  suit  —  for  aught  I  know  — 
Those  who  twitched  her  by  the  back  tress, 

Tugged  and  thought  to  turn  her  —  so!  120 

XVI. 

Therefore,  since  no  leg  to  stand  on 

Thus  I  'm  left  with,  —  joy  or  grief 
Be  the  issue, —  I  abandon 

Hope  or  care  you  name  me  Chief! 
Chief  and  king  and  Lord's  anointed, 

I  ?  —  who  never  once  have  wished 
Death  before  the  day  appointed  : 

Lived  and  liked,  not  poohed  and  pished! 


HOUSE.  439 

XVII. 

u  Ah,  but  so  I  shall  not  enter, 

Scroll  in  hand,  the  common  heart —  130 

Stopped  at  surface  :  since  at  centre 

Song  should  reach  Welt-schmerz,  world  sm?r*' " 
"  Enter  in  the  heart  ?  "     Its  shelly 

Cuirass  guard  mine,  fore  and  aft! 
Such  song  "  enters  in  the  belly 

And  is  cast  out  in  the  draught." 


XVIII. 

Back  then  to  our  sherris-brewage! 

"Kingship"  quotha?  I  shall  wait  — 
Waive  the  present  time :  some  new  age  .  .  . 

But  let  fools  anticipate!  140 

Meanwhile  greet  me  —  "  friend,  good  fellow, 

Gentle  Will,"  my  merry  men! 
As  for  making  Envy  yellow 

With  "  Next  Poet  "—  (Manners,  Ben!) 


HOUSE. 

I. 

OH  ALL  I  sonnet-sing  you  about  myself? 
O  Do  I  live  in  a  house  you  would  like  to  see? 
Is  it  scant  of  gear,  has  it  store  of  pelf? 
".Unlock  my  heart  with  a  sonnet-key?" 

n. 

Invite  the  world,  as  my  betters  have  done? 

"  Take  notice :  this  building  remains  on  view, 
Its  suites  of  reception  every  one, 

Its  private  apartment  and  bedroom  too ; 


«  For  a  ticket,  apply  to  the  Publisher." 

No :  thanking  the  public,  I  must  decline.  tc 

A  peep  thro1  my  window,  if  folk  prefer ; 

But,  please  you,  no  foot  over  threshold  of  mine! 


440 


HOUSE. 

IV. 

I  have  mixed  with  a  crowd  and  heard  free  talk 
In  a  foreign  land  where  an  earthquake  chanced, 

And  a  house  stood  gaping,  naught  to  balk 
Man's  eye  wherever  he  gazed  or  glanced. 

v. 

The  whole  of  the  frontage  shaven  sheer, 

The  inside  gaped  :  exposed  to  day, 
Right  and  wrong  and  common  and  queer, 

Bare,  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it  lay.  20 


The  owner?     Oh,  he  had  been  crushed,  no  doubt 
"  Odd  tables  and  chairs  for  a  man  of  wealth! 

What  a  parcel  of  musty  old  books  about ! 
He  smoked,  —  no  wonder  he  lost  his  health! 

VII. 

"  I  doubt  if  he  bathed  before  he  dressed. 

A  brasier?  —  the  pagan,  he  burned  perfumes! 
You  see  it  is  proved,  what  the  neighbours  guessed : 

His  wife  and  himself  had  separate  rooms." 

VIII. 

Friends,  the  goodman  of  the  house  at  least 

Kept  house  to  himself  till  an  earthquake  came :  30 

'T  is  the  fall  of  its  frontage  permits  you  feast 

On  the  inside  arrangement  you  praise  or  blame. 

IX. 

Outside  should  suffice  for  evidence : 

And  whoso  desires  to  penetrate 
Deeper,  must  dive  by  the  spirit-sense  — 

No  optics  like  yours,  at  any  rate! 

x. 

Hoity  toity !     A  street  to  explore. 
Your  house  the  exception!     '  With  this  same  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart,"1  once  more!" 

Did  Shakespeare?     If  so,  the  less  Shakespeare  he!  40 


SHOP. 
SHOP. 


SO,  friend,  your  shop  was  all  your  house! 
Its  front,  astonishing  the  street, 
Invited  view  from  man  and  mouse 
To  what  diversity  of  treat 
Behind  its  glass  —  the  single  sheet! 

II. 

What  gimcracks,  genuine  Japanese : 

Gape-jaw  and  goggle-eye,  the  frog ; 
Dragons,  owls,  monkeys,  beetles,  geese ; 

Some  crush-nosed,  human-hearted  dog : 

Queer  names,  too,  such  a  catalogue!    v  10 

in. 

I  thought  "  And  he  who  owns  the  wealth 
Which  blocks  the  window's  vastitude, 

—  Ah,  could  I  peep  at  him  by  stealth 
Behind  his  ware,  pass  shop,  intrude 
On  house  itself,  what  scenes  were  viewed! 

IV. 

If  wide  and  showy  thus  the  shop, 

What  must  the  habitation  prove? 
The  true  house  with  no  name  a-top  — 

The  mansion,  distant  one  remove, 

Once  get  him  off  his  traffic  groove!  2C 


Pictures  he  likes,  or  books  perhaps ; 

And  as  for  buying  most  and  best. 
Commend  me  to  these  City  chaps! 

Or  else  he  's  social,  takes  his  rest 

On  Sundays,  with  a  Lord  for  guest. 

VI. 

Some  suburb-palace,  parked  about 

And  gated  grandly,  built  last  year: 
The  four-mile  walk  to  keep  off  gout ; 

Or  big  seat  sold  by  bankrupt  peer : 

But  then  he  takes  the  rail,  that 's  dear.  30 


442  SHOP. 


VII. 


Or,  stop!     I  wager,  taste  selects 

Some  out  o1  the  way,  some  all-unknown 

Retreat :  the  neighbourhood  suspects 
Little  that  he  who  rambles  lone 
Makes  Rothschild  tremble  on  his  throne! 


VIII. 


Nowise!     Nor  Mayfair  residence 
Fit  to  receive  and  entertain,  — 

Nor  Hampstead  villa's  kind  defence 

From  noise  and  crowd,  from  dust  and  drain,  — 

Nor  country-box  was  soul's  domain!  40 


Nowise!     At  back  of  all  that  spread 

Of  merchandize,  woe  's  me,  I  find 
A  hole  i'  the  wall  where,  heels  by  head, 

The  owner  couched,  his  ware  behind, 

—  In  cupboard  suited  to  his  mind. 

x. 

For  why?     He  saw  no  use  of  life 

But,  while  he  drove  a  roaring  trade, 
To  chuckle  "  Customers  are  rife ! " 

To  chafe  "  So  much  hard  cash  outlaid 

Yet  zero  in  my  profits  made!  50 

XI. 

"  This  novelty  costs  pains,  but  —  takes  ? 
Cumbers  my  counter!     Stock  no  more! 

This  article,  no  such  great  shakes, 
Fizzes  like  wild  fire  ?     Underscore 
The  cheap  thing —  thousands  to  the  fore!" 

XII. 

'T  was  lodging  best  to  live  most  nigh 

(Cramp,  coffinlike  as  crib  might  be) 
Receipt  of  Custom  ;  ear  and  eye 

Wanted  no  outworld :  "  Hear  and  see 

The  bustle  in  the  shop!  "  quoth  he.  60 


SHOP.  AA~ 

443 

XIII. 


My  fancy  of  a  merchant-prince 

Was  different.     Thro'  his  wares  we  groped 
Our  darkling  way  to  —  not  to  mince 

The  matter  —  no  black  den  where  moped 

The  master  if  we  interloped! 


XIV. 


Shop  was  shop  only :  household-stuff? 

What  did  he  want  with  comforts  there  ? 
u  Walls,  ceiling,  floor,  stay  blank  and  rough, 

So  goods  on  sale  show  rich  and  rare! 

'  Sell  and  scud  home,'  be  shop's  affair! "  70 


What  might  he  deal  in ?    Gems,  suppose! 

Since  somehow  business  must  be  done 
At  cost  of  trouble,  —  see,  he  throws 

You  choice  of  jewels,  every  one 

Good,  better,  best,  star,  moon  and  sun! 

XVI. 

Which  lies  within  your  power  of  purse? 

This  ruby  that  would  tip  aright 
Solomon's  sceptre?     Oh,  your  nurse 

Wants  simply  coral,  the  delight 

Of  teething  baby,  —  stuff  to  bite!  80 

XVII. 

Howe'er  your  choice  fell,  straight  you  took 
Your  purchase,  prompt  your  money  rang 

On  counter,  —  scarce  the  man  forsook 
His  study  of  the  "Times,"  just  swang 
Till-ward  his  hand  that  stopped  the  clang, — 

xvm. 

Then  off  made  buyer  with  a  prize, 

Then  seller  to  his  "Times"  returned, 
And  so  did  day  wear,  wear,  till  eyes 

Brightened  apace,  for  rest  was  earned : 

He  locked  door  long  ere  candle  burned.  90 


444 


A   TALE. 

XIX. 

And  whither  went  he  ?     Ask  himself, 
Not  me!     To  change  of  scene,  I  think. 

Once  sold  the  ware  and  pursed  the  pelf, 
Chaffer  was  scarce  his  meat  and  drink, 
Nor  all  his  music  —  money-chink. 


Because  a  man  has  shop  to  mind 

In  time  and  place,  since  flesh  must  live, 
Needs  spirit  lack  all  life  behind, 

All  stray  thoughts,  fancies  fugitive, 

All  loves  except  what  trade  can  give?  100 


I  want  to  know  a  butcher  paints, 

A  baker  rhymes  for  his  pursuit, 
Candlestick-maker  much  acquaints 

His  soul  with  song,  or,  haply  mute, 

Blows  out  his  brains  upon  the  flute! 

XXII. 

But — shop  each  day  and  all  day  long! 

Friend,  your  good  angel  slept,  your  star 
Suffered  eclipse,  fate  did  you  wrong ! 

From  where  these  sorts  of  treasures  are, 

There  should  our  hearts  be —  Christ,  how  fart          no 


A  TALE. 


WHAT  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 
Once  upon  a  time 
• — Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me!) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin  ?     Greek,  you  said, 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 


Anyhow  there  's  no  forgetting 
This  much  if  no  more, 


A    TALE.  445 

That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting!) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore,  10 

Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 


HI. 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre ; 
Playing  was  important  clearly 

Quite  as  singing :  I  desire, 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that 's  behind. 

IV. 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round,  20 

—  Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 
To  detect  the  slightest  sound 

Sung  or  played  amiss  :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears! 

v. 

None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon. 
Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out :  take  the  prize! "  30 

VI. 

When,  a  mischief!    Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed? 
Oh,  and  afterwards  eleven, 

Thank  you!    Well,  sir,  — who  had  guessed 
Such  ill  luck  in  store?  —  it  happed 
One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped. 

VII. 

All  was  lost,  then!    No!  a  cricket 
(What  "cicada"  ?    Pooh!) 

—  Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 

For  mere  love  of  music  —  flew  4° 

With  its  little  heart  on  fire, 
Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 


446  A    TALE. 

VIII. 

So  that  when  (Ah  joy!)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger, 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat? 

IX. 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirps  at  need,  50 

Executes  the  hand's  intending, 

Promptly,  perfectly,  —  indeed 
Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 

x. 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
"Take  the  prize  —  a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp!"  60 

XI. 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done? 
That 's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 


XII. 

No!     This  other,  on  returning 

Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning : 

(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand!)  70 

—  Said  "  Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me!" 

XIII. 

So,  he  made  himself  a  siatue : 
Marble  stood,  life-size ; 


A    TALE.  447 

On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize ; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

XIV. 

That's  the  tale:  its  application? 

Somebody  I  know  80 

Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Thro'  his  poetry  that 's  —  Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize! 

xv. 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue  's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  'T  was  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped?  90 

XVI. 

«  For  as  victory  was  nighest, 

While  I  sang  and  played,  — 
With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 

Right  alike,  —  one  string  that  made 
« Love '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 
Never  to  be  heard  again,  — 

XVII. 

«  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone. 

XVIII. 

But  you  don't  know  music !    Wherefore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a  —  poet?     All  I  care  for 

Is  _  to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
"Love"  comes  aptly  in  when  g™" 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough!) 


ADDITIONAL   SELECTIONS   FROM    BROWN- 
ING'S  LATEST   WORKS,    1880-1889. 


ECHETLOS. 

HERE  is  a  story  shall  stir  you!     Stand  up,  Greeks  dead  and  gone, 
Who  breasted,  beat  Barbarians,  stemmed  Persia  rolling  on, 
Did  the  deed  and  saved  the  world,  for  the  day  was  Marathon! 

No  man  but  did  his  manliest,  kept  rank  and  fought  away 

In  his  tribe  and  file :  up,  back,  out,  down  —  was  the  spear-arm  play: 

Like  a  wind-whipt  branchy  wood,  all  spear-arms  a-swing  that  day! 

But  one  man  kept  no  rank,  and  his  sole  arm  plied  no  spear, 
As  a  flashing  came  and  went,  and  a  form  i'  the  van,  the  rear, 
Brightened  the  battle  up,  for  he  blazed  now  there,  now  here. 

Nor  helmed  nor  shielded  he!  but,  a  goat-skin  all  his  wear.  10 

Like  a  tiller  of  the  soil,  with  a  clown's  limbs  broad  and  bare, 

Went  he  ploughing  on  and  on :  he  pushed  with  a  ploughman's  share. 

Did  the  weak  mid-line  give  way,  as  tunnies  on  whom  the  shark 
Precipitates  his  bulk?     Did  the  right-wing  halt  when,  stark 
On  his  heap  of  slain  lay  stretched  Kallimachos  Polemarch? 

Did  the  steady  phalanx  falter?     To  the  rescue,  at  the  need. 
The  clown  was  ploughing'Persia,  clearing  Greek  earth  of  weed, 
As  he  routed  thro1  the  Sakian  and  rooted  up  the  Mede. 

But  the  deed  done,  battle  won,  —  nowhere  to  be  descried 

On  the  meadow,  by  the  stream,  at  the  marsh,  —  look  far  and  wide       20 

From  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  no,  to  the  last  blood-plashed  sea-side, — 

Not  anywhere  on  view  blazed  the  large  limbs  thonged  and  brown, 
Shearing  and  clearing  still  with  the  share  before  which  —  down 
To  the  dust  went  Persia's  pomp,  as  he  ploughed  for  Greece,  that  clown! 

448 


TOUCH  HIM  NE'ER  SO  LIGHTLY. 

How  spake  the  Oracle  ?    "  Care  for  no  name  at  all ! 

Say  but  just  this  :  '  We  praise  one  helpful  whom  we  call 

The  Holder  of  the  Ploughshare.'     The  great  deed  ne'er  grows  small." 

Not  the  great  name!     Sing  — woe  for  the  great  name  Miltiade's 

And  its  end  at  Paros  isle!     Woe  for  Themistokles 

—  Satrap  in  Sardis  court!    Name  not  the  clown  like  these !  30 


TOUCH   HIM  NE'ER  SO   LIGHTLY. 

SONG. 

' r  I  XDUCH  him  ne'er  so  lightly,  into  song  he  broke: 
_L     Soil  so  quick-receptive,  —  not  one  feather-seed, 
Not  one  flower-dust  fell  but  straight  its  fall  awoke 
Vitalizing  virtue  :  song  would  song  succeed 
Sudden  as  spontaneous  —  prove  a  poet-soul ! " 

Indeed? 

Rock's  the  song-soil  rather,  surface  hard  and  bare : 
Sun  and  dew  their  mildness,  storm  and  frost  their  rage 
Vainly  both  expend.  —  few  flowers  awaken  there  : 
Quiet  in  its  cleft  broods —  what  the  after-age 
Knows  and  names  a  pine,  a  nation's  heritage.  10 


WANTING   IS  — WHAT? 

WANTING  is  — what? 
Summer  redundant, 

Blueness  abundant, 

—  Where  is  the  blot? 
Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same, 
—  Framework  which  waits  for  a  picture  to  frame : 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 
Roses  embowering  with  naught  they  embower! 
Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  comer, 
Pant  thro'  the  blueness,  perfect  the  summer!  10 

Breathe  but  one  breath 

Rose-beauty  above, 

And  all  that  was  death 

Grows  life,  grows  love. 
Grows  love! 

2G 


450  NEVER    THE  TIME  AND   THE  PLACE. 


NEVER   THE    TIME   AND   THE   PLACE. 

NEVER  the  time  and  the  place 
And  the  loved  one  all  together! 
This  path  —  how  soft  to  pace! 

This  May —  what  magic  weather! 
Where  is  the  loved  one's  face? 
In  a  dream  that  loved  one's  face  meets  mine, 
But  the  house  is  narrow,  the  place  is  bleak 
Where,  outside,  rain  and  wind  combine 
With  a  furtive  ear,  if  I  strive  to  speak, 
With  a  hostile  eye  at  my  flushing  cheek,  10 

With  a  malice  that  marks  each  word,  each  sign! 
O  enemy  sly  and  serpentine, 

Uncoil  thee  from  the  waking  man! 
Do  I  hold  the  Past 
Thus  firm  and  fast 
Yet  doubt  if  the  Future  hold  I  can? 
This  path  so  soft  to  pace  shall  lead 
Thro1  the  magic  of  May  to  herself  indeed! 
Or  narrow  if  needs  the  house  must  be, 
Outside  are  the  storms  and  strangers  :  we —  20 

Oh,  close,  safe,  warm  sleep  I  and  she, 
—  I  and  she! 


ROUND  US  THE  WILD  CREATURES. 

ROUND  us  the  wild  creatures,  overhead  the  trees, 
Underfoot  the  moss-tracks,  —  life  and  love  with  these! 
I  to  wear  a  fawn-skin,  thou  to  dress  in  flowers  : 
All  the  long  lone  summer-day  that  greenwood  life  of  ours! 

Rich-pavilioned,  rather,  —  still  the  world  without,  — 
Inside  —  gold-roofed  silk-walled  silence  round  about! 
Queen  it  thou  on  purple,  —  I,  at  watch  and  ward 
Couched  beneath  the  columns,  gaze,  thy  slave,  love's  guard! 

So,  for  us  no  world?     Let  throngs  press  thee  to  me! 

Up  and  down  amid  men,  heart  by  heart  fare  we!  10 

Welcome  squalid  vesture,  harsh  voice,  hateful  face! 

God  is  soul,  souls  I  and  thou :  with  souls  should  souls  have  place. 


ASK  NOT  ONE  LEAST  WORD   OF  PRAISE.       45  r 

ASK   NOT  ONE   LEAST  WORD   OF   PRAISE. 

ASK  not  one  least  word  of  praise! 
Words  declare  your  eyes  are  bright  ? 
What  then  meant  that  summer  day's 
Silence  spent  in  one  long  gaze? 
Was  my  silence  wrong  or  right  ? 

Words  of  praise  were  all  to  seek! 

Face  of  you  and  form  of  you, 
Did  they  find  the  praise  so  weak 
When  my  lips  just  touched  your  cheek  — 

Touch  which  let  my  soul  come  through?  lo 


EPILOGUE   TO  "FERISHTAH'S   FANCIES." 

OH,  Love  —  no,  Love!     All  the  noise  below.  Love, 
Groanings  all  and  moanings  —  none  of  Life  I  lose! 
All  of  Life  's  a  cry  just  of  weariness  and  woe,  Love  — 

"  Hear  at  least,  thou  happy  one!  "    How  can  I,  Love,  but  choose? 

Only,  when  I  do  hear,  sudden  circle  round  me 

—  Much  as  when  the  moon's  might  frees  a  space  from  cloud  — 
Iridescent  splendours  :  gloom  —  would  else  confound  me  — 

Barriered  off  and  banished  far — bright-edged  the  blackest  shroud! 

Thronging  through  the  cloud-rift,  whose  are  they,  the  faces 

Faint  revealed  yet  sure  divined,  the  famous  ones  of  old?  10 

"  What "  —  they  smile  —  "  our  names,  our  deeds  so  soon  erases 
Time  upon  his  tablet  where  Life's  glory  lies  enrolled  ? 

"  Was  it  for  mere  fool's-play,  make-believe,  and  mumming, 
So  we  battled  it  like  men,  not  boy-like  sulked  or  whined? 

Each  of  us  heard  clang  God's  '  Come! '  and  each  was  coming : 
Soldiers  all,  to  forward-face,  not  sneaks  to  lag  behind! 

"  How  of  the  field's  fortune  ?    That  concerned  our  Leader! 

Led,  we  struck  our  stroke  nor  cared  for  doings  left  and  right : 
Each  as  on  his  sole  head,  failer  or  succeeder, 

Lay  the  blame  or  lit  the  praise :  no  care  for  cowards :  fight! " 

Then  the  cloud-rift  broadens,  spanning  earth  that 's  under, 
Wide  our  world  displays  its  worth,  man's  strife,  and  strife's  success  : 


452 


THE  NAMES. 

All  the  good  and  beauty,  wonder  crowning  wonder, 
Till  my  heart  and  soul  applaud  perfection,  nothing  less. 

Only,  at  heart's  utmost  joy  and  triumph,  terror 

Sudden  turns  the  blood  to  ice :  a  chill  wind  disencharms 

All  the  late  enchantment !     What  if  all  be  error  — 

If  the  halo  irised  round  my  head  were,  Love,  thine  arms  ? 

Palazzo  Giustinian-Recanati, 
VENICE,  Dec.  i,  1883. 


THE  NAMES. 

OHAKESPEARE!  —  to  such  name's  sounding,  what  succeeds 

\J  Fitly  as  silence?     Falter  forth  the  spell, — 
Act  follows  word,  the  speaker  knows  full  well. 

Nor  tampers  with  its  magic  more  than  needs. 

Two  names  there  are :  That  which  the  Hebrew  reads 
With  his  soul  only :  if  from  lips  it  fell, 
Echo,  back  thundered  by  earth,  heaven,  and  hell, 

Would  own  "Thou  didst  create  us!  "  Naught  impedes 

We  voice  the  other  name,  man's  most  of  might, 

Awesomely,  lovingly  :  let  awe  and  love  10 

Mutely  await  their  working,  leave  to  sight 
All  of  the  issue  as  —  below  —  above  — 

Shakespeare's  creation  rises  :  one  remove, 

Tho"  dread  —  this  finite  from  that  infinite, 

March  12,  1884. 


WHY   I   AM   A   LIBERAL. 

« "IT  7HY?"    Because  all  I  haply  can  and  do, 
V V    All  that  I  am  now,  all  I  hope  to  be,  — 
Whence  comes  it  save  from  fortune  setting  free 

Body  and  soul  the  purpose  to  pursue, 

God  traced  for  both  ?     If  fetters,  not  a  few, 
Of  prejudice,  convention,  fall  from  me. 
These  shall  I  bid  men  —  each  in  his  degree 

Also  God-guided  —  bear,  and  gayly  too  ? 

But  little  do  or  can  the  best  of  us : 
That  little  is  achieved  thro'  Liberty.  lo 

Who  then  dares  hold,  emancipated  thus, 
His  fellow  shall  continue  bound?  not  I, 

Who  live,  love,  labour  freely,  nor  discuss 
A  brother's  right  to  freedom.     That  is  "Why." 


PROLOGUE  TO  «  ASOLANDO."  453 


PROLOGUE  TO   "ASOLANDO." 

r"TlHE  Poet's  age  is  sad :  for  why? 
JL    In  youth,  the  natural  world  could  show 
No  common  object  but  his  eye 

At  once  involved  with  alien  glow  — 
His  own  soul's  iris-bow. 

u  And  now  a  flower  is  just  a  flower : 

Man,  bird,  beast  are  but  beast,  bird,  man  — 

Simply  themselves,  uncinct  by  dower 
Of  dyes  which,  when  life's  day  began, 

Round  each  in  glory  ran."  10 

Friend,  did  you  need  an  optic  glass, 
Which  were  your  choice?    A  lens  to  drape 

In  ruby,  emerald,  chrysopras, 
Each  object  —  or  reveal  its  shape 

Clear  outlined,  past  escape, 

The  naked  very  thing?  —  so  clear 

That,  when  you  had  the  chance  to  gaze, 
You  found  its  inmost  self  appear 

Thro'  outer  seeming  —  truth  ablaze, 
Not  falsehood's  fancy-haze? 

How  many  a  year,  my  Asolo, 

Since  —  one  step  just  from  sea  to  land — 

I  found  you,  loved  yet  feared  you  so  — 
For  natural  objects  seemed  to  stand 

Palpably  fire-clothed !    No  — 

No  mastery  of  mine  o'er  these! 

Terror  with  beauty,  like  the  Bush 
Burning  but  unconsumed.     Bend  knees, 

Drop  eyes  to  earthward !     Language  ? 
Silence  't  is  awe  decrees. 

And  now  ?    The  lambent  flame  is  —  where  ? 

Lost  from  the  naked  world :  earth,  sky, 
Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower,  —  Italia's  rare 

O'er-running  beauty  crowds  the  eye- 
But  flame?    The  Bush  is  bare. 

Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower,  -  they  stand  distinct, 
Nature  to  know  and  name.     What  then 


454  ROSNY. 

A  Voice  spoke  thence  which  straight  unlinked 

Fancy  from  fact :  see,  all 's  in  ken : 
Has  once  my  eyelid  winked  ?  40 

No,  for  the  purged  ear  apprehends 

Earth's  import,  not  the  eye  late  dazed : 

The  Voice  said  "  Call  my  works  thy  friends! 
At  Nature  dost  thou  shrink  amazed? 

God  is  it  who  transcends." 

ASOLO,  Sept.  6, 1889. 


ROSNY. 

WOE,  he  went  galloping  into  the  war, 
Clara,  Clara! 
Let  us  two  dream :  shall  he  'scape  with  a  scar? 

Scarcely  disfigurement,  rather  a  grace 
Making  for  manhood  which  nowise  we  mar : 
See,  while  I  kiss  it,  the  flush  on  his  face  — 
Rosny,  Rosny! 

Light  does  he  laugh  :  "  With  your  love  in  my  soul  "  — 

(Clara,  Clara!) 
"How  could  I  other  than —  sound,  safe  and  whole —  id 

Cleave  who  opposed  me  asunder,  yet  stand 
Scatheless  beside  you,  as,  touching  love's  goal, 
Who  won  the  race  kneels,  craves  reward  at  your  hand  — 
Rosny,  Rosny  ?  " 

Ay,  but  if  certain  who  envied  should  see! 

Clara,  Clara, 
Certain  who  simper :  "  The  hero  for  me 

Hardly  of  life  were  so  chary  as  miss 

Death  —  death  and  fame  —  that 's  love's  guerdon  when  she 
Boasts,  proud  bereaved  one,  her  choice  fell  on  this  20 

Rosny,  Rosny!" 

So,  —  go  on  dreaming,  —  he  lies  mid  a  heap 

(Clara,  Clara,) 
Of  the  slain  by  his  hand  :  what  is  death  but  a  sleep  ? 

Dead,  with  my  portrait  displayed  on  his  breast : 
Love  wrought  his  undoing :  "  No  prudence  could  keep 
The  love-maddened  wretch  from  his  fate."     That  is  best, 
Rosny,  Rosny! 


POETICS. 


POETICS. 

say  the  foolish! "     Say  the  foolish  so,  Love? 
O  "  Flower  she  is,  my  rose  "  —  or  else  "  My  very  swan  is  she"— 
Or  perhaps  "  Yon  maid-moon,  blessing  earth  below,  Love, 

That  art  thou!"  —  to  them,  belike:  no  such  vain  words  from  me. 

u  Hush,  rose,  blush!  no  balm  like  breath,"  I  chide  it : 

"  Bend  thy  neck  its  best,  swan,  —  hers  the  whiter  curve! " 

Be  the  moon  the  moon :  my  Love  I  place  beside  it : 
What  is  she?     Her  human  self,  —  no  lower  word  will  serve. 


SUMMUM   BONUM. 

ALL  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag  of  one  bee : 
All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart  of  one  gem  : 
In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine  of  the  sea : 

Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine,  —  wonder,  wealth,  and — how 
far  above  them  — 

Truth,  that 's  brighter  than  gem, 
Trust,  that 's  purer  than  pearl,  — 

Brightest  truth,  purest  trust  in  the  universe  —  all  were  for  me 
In  the  kiss  of  one  girl. 


MUCKLE-MOUTH  MEG. 

FROWNED  the  Laird  on  the  Lord :  "  So,  red-handed  I  catch  thee? 
Death-doomed  by  our  Law  of  the  Border! 
We  Ve  a  gallows  outside  and  a  chiel  to  dispatch  thee  : 
Who  trespasses  —  hangs  :  all 's  in  order." 

He  met  frown  with  smile,  did  the  young  English  gallant : 

Then  the  Laird's  dame:  "  Nay,  Husband,  I  beg! 
He  's  comely :  be  merciful!     Grace  for  the  callant 

—  If  he  marries  our  Muckle-mouth  Meg!  " 

"  No  mile-wide-mouthed  monster  of  yours  do  I  marry : 

Grant  rather  the  gallows!"  laughed  he. 
"  Foul  fare  kith  and  kin  of  you  — why  do  you  tarry? 

"  To  tame  your  fierce  temper! "  quoth  she. 


456  EPILOGUE  TO  "ASOLANDO." 

"  Shove  him  quick  in  the  Hole,  shut  him  fast  for  a  week: 

Cold,  darkness  and  hunger  work  wonders  : 
Who  lion-like  roars  now,  mouse-fashion  will  squeak, 

And  '  it  rains  '  soon  succeed  to  '  it  thunders.'  " 

A  week  did  he  bide  in  the  cold  and  the  dark 

—  Not  hunger:  for  duly  at  morning 
In  flitted  a  lass,  and  a  voice  like  a  lark 

Chirped  "  Muckle-mouth  Meg  still  ye  're  scorning?  20 

" Go  hang,  but  here  's  parritch  to  hearten  ye  first!" 
"  Did  Meg's  muckle-mouth  boast  within  some 

Such  music  as  yours,  mine  should  match  it  or  burst : 
No  frog-jaws!     So  tell  folk,  my  Winsome!" 

Soon  week  came  to  end,  and,  from  Hole's  door  set  wide, 
Out  he  marched,  and  there  waited  the  lassie : 

"  Yon  gallows,  or  Muckle-mouth  Meg  for  a  bride ! 
Consider!     Sky  's  blue  and  turf 's  grassy : 

"  Life  's  sweet :  shall  I  say  ye  wed  Muckle-mouth  Meg?  " 

"  Not  I,"  quoth  the  stout  heart :  "  too  eerie  30 

The  mouth  that  can  swallow  a  bubblyjock's  egg : 
Shall  I  let  it  munch  mine?     Never,  Dearie!  " 

"Not  Muckle-mouth  Meg?    Wow,  the  obstinate  man! 

Perhaps  he  would  rather  wed  me!  " 
"  Ay,  would  he  —  with  just  for  a  dowry  your  can ! " 

"I  'm  Muckle-mouth  Meg,"  chirruped  she. 

"  Then  so  —  so  —  so  —  so  —  "  as  he  kissed  her  apace  — 

"  Will  I  widen  thee  out  till  thou  turnest 
From  Margaret  Minnikin-mou',  by  God's  grace, 

To  Muckle-mouth  Meg  in  good  earnest !  "  40 


?      . 

EPILOGUE   TO  "ASOLANDO."     ^T' 

0 

AT  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where  —  by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned  — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
—  Pity  me? 


457 


EPILOGUE  TO  "ASOLANDO." 

/ 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 

—  Being  —  who?  ^  I£U£OL_*WT£  ,4 


One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break. 
Never  dreamed,  tho'  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time  * 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 

"  Strive  and  thrive!  "  cry  "  Speed,  —  jight  on,  fare  ever  . 

There  as  here!"  2C 


THE  END. 


NOTES. 


P.  i.  My  Star.  A  love  lyric,  showing  how  the  soul  of  the  loved  one  reveals  itseli 
fully  to  the  sympathetic  insight  of  the  lover  alone,  who,  having  this  revelation,  cares 
nothing  if  the  choice  of  others  be  more  distinguished.  —  4.  Angled  spar.  A  prism 
of  Iceland  spar  has  the  property  of  polarizing  or  dividing  a  ray  of  light  into  two 
parts.  Suppose  this  polarized  ray  be  passed  through  a  plate  of  Iceland  spar,  at  a 
certain  angle,  and  a  second  prism  of  Iceland  spar  be  rotated  in  front  of  it,  different 
colors  will  be  given  out,  complementary  tints  being  ninety  degrees  apart,  and  four 
times  during  the  rotation  the  light  will  vanish  completely.  Some  such  experiment 
as  this  was  probably  in  the  poet's  mind  when  he  made  the  comparison  with  the 
angled  spar.  It  is  said  that  this  poem  refers  to  Mrs.  Browning,  and  serves  here  as 
an  inscription  to  her ;  having  been  placed  first  by  Browning  himself  in  this  volume 
of  selections  intended  to  accompany  a  like  volume  of  selections  from  her  poetry. 
('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.  Set  to  music  by  Helen  A.  Clarke,  in  Poet-lore,  July, 
1889.) 

P.  i.  A  Face.  The  poet,  in  sketching  how  he  would  like  to  have  painted  the 
portrait  of  a  certain  beautiful  woman,  gives  a  vivid  likeness  of  her,  though  his 
descriptions  are  all  indirect.  —  3.  Tuscan's  early  art.  The  early  Tuscan  painters 
were  still  under  the  influence  of  the  Byzantine  school  of  painting,  one  of  the 
marked  features  of  which  was  the  constant  use  of  gold  backgrounds.  Cimabue, 
who  was  the  first  of  the  Tuscans  to  break  away  from  the  conventions  of  the 
Byzantine  school,  frequently  used  gold  backgrounds.  —  14.  Correggio  loves  to 
mass,  etc.  This  is  a  true  bit  of  criticism  upon  Correggio's  style,  which  is  espe- 
cially remarkable  for  its  chiaroscuro.  "  He  knew  how  to  anatomize  light  and 
shade  in  endless  gradation."  His  angels,  grouped  in  brilliant  depths  of  sky,  might 
well  wonder  at  the  solitary  head  on  the  pale  gold  ground..  ('  Dramatis  Personas/ 
1864.) 

P.  2.  My  Last  Duchess  puts  in  the  mouth  of  a  Duke  of  Ferrara,  a  typical  hus- 
band and  art  patron  of  the  Renaissance,  a  description  of  his  last  wife,  whose 
happy  nature  and  universal  kindliness  were  a  perpetual  affront  to  his  exacting 
self-predominance,  and  whose  suppression,  by  his  command,  has  made  the  vacancy 
he  is  now,  therefore,  in  his  interview  with  the  envoy  for  a  new  match,  t^jng  *very 
precaution  to  fill  more  acceptably.  —  3.  Fra  Pandolf.  and  ^Claui  c' 
are 
entitle 
Di 

P  \.  Song  from  Pippa  Passes.  Sung  by  the  little  girl,  Pippa.  and  founded  upon 
a  story- as  the  lines  in  the  poem  following  the  song  explain -told 

459 


NOTES. 

Cornaro,  how  once  a  certain  page  pined  for  the  love  of  her  so  far  above  him  that 
it  was  entirely  beyond  his  power  to  do  her  service.  —  6.  Kate  the  Queen.  Caterina, 
born  in  Venice  about  1454,  daughter  of  Marco  Cornaro,  a  wealthy  and  noble  citizen. 
She  married  James  Lusignan,  King  of  Cyprus,  after  having  been  adopted  by  the 
Venetian  Senate  as  a  daughter  of  the  republic.  After  the  King's  death  she  became 
Queen  of  Cyprus,  but  her  reign  was  much  troubled  by  other  claimants  to  the  throne. 
Venice,  at  first  giving  her  its  protection,  finally  forced  her  to  abdicate,  and  took 
possession  of  Cyprus.  Her  abdication  was  attended  with  great  ceremony;  and 
everywhere,  on  her  journey  from  Cyprus  to  Venice,  she  was  received  with  accla- 
mation. Upon  her  arrival  at  Venice,  the  Doge  and  Senate  received  her  with  great 
honor,  and  assigned  her,  for  a  dwelling,  the  Chateau-fort  of  Asolo,  in  the  province 
of  Trevise.  At  Asolo,  Caterina  formed  a  little  court,  "  wielded  her  little  sceptre  for 
her  people's  good,  and  won  their  love  by  gentleness  and  grace."  Died  in  Venice, 
1510.  See  H.  F.  Brown,  '  Venetian  Studies.'  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,'  No.  i, 
1841.) 

P.  4.  Cristina  expresses  the  eternal  character  of  the  love  awakened  by  a  look, 
and  the  lover's  sense  of  the  worth  of  love  to  the  soul  as  the  supreme  gain  of  life. 
Though  Cristina's  half  of  the  rapture  be  quenched  in  worldly  honors,  his  remains 
forever  blent  with  hers  to  his  spiritual  enrichment.  Cristina,  daughter  of  Francis  i. 
of  Naples,  born  1806,  was  handsome  and  a  coquette,  married  Ferdinand  VII., 
King  of  Spain,  1829;  became  regent  on  his  death,  1833,  till  her  daughter  Isabel  II. 
took  the  throne,  1843.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  1842. 
First  appeared  under  the  main  title  '  Queen  Worship,'  with  '  Rudel  and  the  Lady 
of  Tripoli '  preceding  it,  1842.) 

P.  5.  Count  Gismond:  Aix  in  Provence  illustrates  in  the  person  of  the  woman 
who  relates  to  a  friend  an  episode  of  her  own  life,  the  power  of  innate  purity  to  • 
raise  up  for  her  a  defender  when  caught  in  the  toils  woven  by  the  unsuspected 
envy  and  hypocrisy  of  her  cousins  and  Count  Gauthier,  who  attempt  to  bring  dis- 
honor upon  her,  on  her  birthday,  with  the  seeming  intention  of  honoring  her. 
Her  faith  that  the  trial  by  combat  between  Gauthier  and  Gismond  must  end  in 
Gismond's  victory  and  her  vindication  reflects  most  truly,  as  Arthur  Syrr.ons  has 
pointed  out,  the  mediaeval  atmosphere  of  chivalrous  France. — 124.  Tercel,  a 
male  falcon.  ('Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  1842.  See 
Notes,  P.  2. 

P.  9.  Eurydice  to  Orpheus  gives  speech  to  the  yearning  expressed  in  Eurydice's 
face,  in  the  picture,  which  tempts  them  both  to  let  the  past  go  and  to  defy  the 
future  for  the  sake  of  the  instant's  satisfaction  of  their  love.  Orpheus  descending  to 
Hades  so  worked  upon  Persephone,  Queen  of  the  Dead,  by  the  magic  of  his  music, 
that  she  gave  him  his  wife  Eurydice  on  condition  that  he  should  not  turn  to  look  at 
her  till  they  reached  the  upper  world,  else  he  would  "  all  his  long  toils  forfeit  "  for 
that  look.  (Royal  Academy  Catalogue,  1864.  Included  in  '  Poetical  Works,' 
Vol.  VI.  —  '  Dramatis  Personae,'  1868.) 

P.  9.  The  Glove  gives  a  transcript  from  Court  life,  in  Paris,  under  Francis  I. 
In  making  Ronsard  the  mouthpiece  for  a  deeper  observation  of  the  meaning  of  the 
incident  he  is  supposed  to  witness  and  describe  than  Marot  and  the  rest  saw, 
characteristic  differences  between  these  two  poets  of  the  time  are  brought  out,  the 
genuineness  of  courtly  love  and  chivalry  is  tested,  and  to  the  original  story  of  the 
glove  is  added  a  new  view  of  the  lady's  character;  a  sketch  of  her  humbler  and 
truer  lover,  and  their  happiness ;  and  a  pendent  scene  showing  the  courtier  De 
Lorges,  having  won  a  beauty  for  his  wife,  in  the  ignominious  position  of  assisting  the 
king  to  enjoy  her  favors  and  of  submitting  to  pleasantries  upon  his  discomfiture. 


NOTES.  46 

The  original  story  as  told  by  Poullain  de  St.  Croix  in  his  Essais  Historiques  sur 
Pans  ran  thus:  "  One  day  whilst  Francis  I,  amused  himself  with  looking  at  a  com- 
bat between  his  lions,  a  lady  having  let  her  glove  drop,  said  to  De  Lorges  '  If  you 
would  have  me  believe  that  you  love  me  as  much  as  you  swear  you  do'  go  and 
bring  back  my  glove.'  De  Lorges  went  down,  picked  up  the  glove  from  amidst 
the  ferocious  beasts,  returned,  and  threw  it  in  the  lady's  face ;  and  in  spite  of  all  her 
advances  and  cajoleries  would  never  look  at  her  again."  Schiller  running  across 
this  anecdote  of  St.  Croix,  in  1797,  as  he  writes  Goethe,  wrote  a  poem  on  it  which 
adds  nothing  to  the  story.  Leigh  Hunt's  'The  Glove  and  the  Lions'  adds  some 
traits.  It  characterizes  the  lady  as  shallow  and  vain,  with  smiles  and  eyes  "  which 
always  seem'd  the  same."  She  calculates  since  "  king,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on  " 
that  "  the  occasion  is  divine  "  to  drop  her  glove  and  "  prove  his  love,  then  look  at 
him  and  smile  " ;  and  after  De  Lorges  has  returned  and  thrown  the  glove,  "  but  not 
with  love,  right  in  the  lady's  face,"  Hunt  makes  the  king  rise  and  swear  "rightly 
done !  No  love,  quoth  he,  but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task  like  that !  "  This  is  the 
material  Browning  worked  on ;  he  makes  use  of  this  speech  of  the  king's,  but  re- 
models the  lady's  character  wholly,  and  gives  her  an  appreciative  lover,  and  also  a 
keen-eyed  young  poet  to  tell  her  story  afresh  and  to  reveal  through  his  criticism  the 
narrowness  of  the  Court  and  the  Court  poets.— 12.  Naso.  Ovid.  Love  of  the 
classics  and  curiosity  as  to  human  nature  were  both  characteristic  of  Peter  Ron- 
sard  (1524-1585),  at  one  time  page  to  Francis  I.,  the  most  erudite  and  original  of 
French  mediaeval  poets.  —  45.  Clement  Marat  (1496-1544),  Court  poet  to  Francis  I. 
His  nature  and  verse  were  simpler  than  Ronsard's,  and  he  belonged  more  peculiarly 
to  his  own  day. — 48.  Versifies  David.  Marot  was  suspected  of  Protestant  leanings 
which  occasioned  his  imprisonment  twice  and  put  him  in  need  of  the  protection 
Francis  and  his  sister  gave  him.  Among  his  works  were  sixty-five  epistles  ad- 
dressed to  grandees,  attesting  his  courtiership,  and  the  paraphrase  of  forty-nine  of 
the  Psalms  to  which  Ronsard  alludes.  —  50.  Ilium  Juda,  etc.  That  lion  of  the  tribe 
of  Judah.  —  89.  Venienti,  etc.  Meet  the  coming  disease;  that  is,  if  evil  be  antici- 
pated, don't  wait  till  it  seizes  you,  but  dare  to  assure  yourself  and  then  forestall  it 
as  the  lady  did.  —  190.  Theorbo.  An  old  Italian  stringed  instrument  such  as  pages 
used.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  —  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845.) 

P.  14.  Song  reflects  the  mood  of  a  lover  who  in  his  own  infatuation  imagines 
every  one  else  must  see  his  mistress  as  he  sees  her  and  praise  her  as  he  thinks  she 
should  be  praised,  though  the  intensity  of  his  emotion  prevents  him  from  doing  it 
himself.  ('Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7 — Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,' 
1845.  Set  to  music  by  E.  C.  Gregory.  London:  Novello,  Ewer,  and  Co.) 

P.  14.  A  Serenade  at  the  Villa  reflects  the  mood  of  the  speaker  as  he  calls  to 
mind  the  scene  of  his  serenade  the  night  before,  when,  in  spite  of  the  thunderous, 
sultry  night,  and  the  deadness  of  nature,  he  ventured  to  go  forth  and  sing  his  devo- 
tion to  his  lady.  He  wonders  whether  the  lady  recognized  that  here  was  a  friend 
who  would  serve  her  with  the  utmost  devotion  to  life's  end,  or  whether,  as  some- 
thing warns  him,  she  considered  the  music  merely  an  annoyance  that  only  added 
to  the  discomfort  of  an  already  unbearable  night  —  an  impression  evidently  due  to 
the  inhospitable  blackness  of  her  windows  and  to  his  excited  imagination  reflected 
in  the  unfriendliness  of  the  grass  in  grudging  him  place  to  stand  and  the  gate's 
grinding  its  teeth  as  he  passed  through.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  16.  Youth  and  Art.  In  this  half-humorous  soliloquy  a  woman  regrets  the 
foolishness  that  made  herself  and  a  young  artist  choose  worldly  ease  and  comfort 
instead  of  confessing  to  each  other  their  love  and  casting  in  their  lot  together,  thus 
gaining  the  true  happiness  that  only  once  was  within  their  grasp. —  8.  Gibson,  John 


462 


NOTES. 


(1790-1866),  sculptor,  well  known  by  his  'Tinted  Venus.'  — 12.  Grisi,  Giulietta 
(born  in  Milan,  1812),  a  celebrated  opera  singer. — 58.  bals-pares,  dress  balls. 
('  Dramatis  Personse,'  1864.) 

P.  19.  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess.  A  story  of  the  triumph  of  a  free  and  loving 
life  over  a  cold  and  conventional  one.  The  duke's  huntsman  frees  his  mind  to 
his  friend  as  to  his  part  in  the  escape  of  the  gladsome,  ardent  young  duchess  from 
the  blighting  yoke  of  a  husband  whose  life  consisted  in  imitating  defunct  medi- 
aeval customs.  An  old  gipsy  is  the  agency  that  awakens  her  to  the  joy  and  freedom 
of  love.  Her  mystic  chant  and  charm  claim  the  duchess  as  the  true  heir  of 
gipsy  blood,  thrill  her  with  life,  half-hypnotize  the  huntsman,  too,  and  transform 
the  gipsy  crone  herself  into  an  Eastern  queen.  He  helps  them  off,  and  looks  for 
no  better  future,  when  the  duke's  death  releases  him,  than  to  travel  to  the  land  of 
the  gipsies  and  hear  the  last  news  of  his  lady. 

The  poem  grew  from  the  fancies  aroused  in  the  poet's  heart  by  the  snatch  of  a 
woman's  song  he  overheard  when  a  boy,  —  "  Following  the  Queen  of  the  Gipsies, 
O!"  (First  nine  sections,  Hood's  Magazine,  April,  1845;  whole  in  'Bells  and 
Pomegranates,'  No.  7,  1845.) 

P.  39.  Song  from  Pippa  Passes.  Little  song  sung  by  Pippa  expressing  trust 
in  God  because  of  the  beautiful  spring  morning.  (See  Notes,  P.  3.) 

P.  39.  How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  describes  the 
gallop  of  three  horses  with  their  riders  from  Ghent  at  midnight  to  Aix  at  midday. 
Two  of  the  horses  falling  dead  by  the  way,  the  good  steed  Roland  is  left  alone  to 
reach  the  goal  and  save  Aix. 

In  answer  to  inquiries  Browning  wrote  :  "  There  is  no  sort  of  historical  founda- 
tion about '  Good  News  from  Ghent.'  I  wrote  it  under  the  bulwark  of  a  vessel  off 
the  African  coast,  after  I  had  been  at  sea  long  enough  to  appreciate  even  the  fancy 
of  a  gallop  on  the  back  of  a  certain  good  horse  '  York,'  then  in  my  stable  at  home. 
It  was  written  in  pencil  on  the  flyleaf  of  Bartoli's  '  Simboli,'  I  remember." 

It  has,  however,  been  pointed  out  by  several  commentators  that  the  poem  may 
be  said  to  have  a  sort  of  historical  background,  as  such  an  incident  might  easily 
have  grown  out  of  the  event  of  the  "  Pacification  of  Ghent,"  a  treaty  of  union 
entered  into  by  Holland,  Zealand,  and  the  southern  Netherlands,  headed  by 
William  of  Orange,  and  directed  against  the  tyrannical  power  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain. 
(See  Motley's  '  Rise  of  the  United  Netherlands,"  Vol.  VIII.) 

"  The  '  horse  without  peer  '  might  possibly  have  galloped  the  ninety-odd  miles 
between  Ghent  and  Aix,  but  the  feat  would  be  a  marvellous  one.  —  10.  Pique.  The 
pommel  of  the  saddle.  We  state  this  on  authority  of  an  army  officer,  although 
the  meaning  is  in  none  of  the  dictionaries.  — 14.  Lokeren.  A  town  twelve  miles 
from  Ghent,  in  a  direction  a  little  north  of  east.  — 15.  Boom.  Sixteen  miles  due  east 
from  Lokeren.  — 16.  Diiffeld,  or  Duffel,  is  about  twelve  miles  east  of  Boom,  and 
a  few  miles  north  of  Mechlin.  — 17.  Mecheln.  The  contracted  form  of  Mechelent 
the  Flemish  form  of  Mechlin  (French,  Af alines).  The  church  steeple  is  the  lofty 
(324  feet)  though  unfinished  tower  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Rombold.  Like  many 
of  the  great  Belgian  churches,  it  is  noted  for  its  chimes. — 18.  Aerschot.  All  the 
eds.  spell  the  name  Aershot ;  but  the  sch  is  pronounced  like  sk.  The  town  is 
fifteen  miles  from  Duffel.  —  31.  Hasselt.  The  capital  of  the  province  of  Limbourg. 
It  is  about  twenty-four  miles  from  Aerschot,  and  almost  eighty  from  Ghent  by  the 
route  described.  Dirck  had,  indeed,  'galloped  bravely.'  —  38.  Looz.  This  town  is 
seven  or  eight  miles  due  south  from  Hasselt,  and  Tongres  is  also  out  of  the  direct 
road  to  Aix-la-Chapelle.  We  should  expect  the  riders  to  take  the  route  via 
Maastricht.  By  rail  it  is  forty-one  miles  from  Hasselt  to  Aix,  and  the  highway 


NOTES. 

cannot  be  much  less.  — 41.  Dalhem.  Apparently  some  village  near  Aix  It  can- 
not  be  the  frontier-town  Dalheim,  for  that  lies  too  far  to  the  north.  The  dome-spire 
is  probably  the  cupola  of  the  '  octagon '  of  the  cathedral,  built  by  Charlemagne  and 
containing  his  tomb."  —  Rolfe  and  Hersey's  Notes. 

('Bells  and  Pomegranates.  No.  7  — Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics.1  1845. 
Set  to  Music  by  "Yolande,"  London:  Boosey;  and  by  Miss  H.  V.  Ormerod' 
London :  Forsyth  Bros.) 

P.  41.  Song  from  '  Paracelsus.'  Sung  by  Paracelsus  (Part  IV.),  half  in  mock- 
ery, of  his  dead  dreams  on  their  funeral  pyre.  (1835.) 

P.  42.  Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-el-Kadr  describes  the  ride  of  an  Arab  in- 
surgent through  the  Algerian  plain  called  the  Metidja  to  rejoin  his  chief,  Abd-el- 
Kadr.  The  leap  of  his  blood  quickens  his  insight,  makes  him  proud  of  his  loyalty 
to  his  leader,  defiant  of  witnesses,  exultant  over  the  visions  he  has  of  the  French 
who  came  boasting  to  the  desert,  to  remain  there  slain,  their  dead  bodies  seeming 
to  be  uncovered  by  the  shifting  sands  he  leaves  behind  him  as  he  rides  past  on  his 
unspurred  horse  towards  the  fate  he  refuses  to  pry  into,  content  to  accept  death 
when  Mohammed  pleases.  —  Abd-el-Kadr  ("servant  of  God"),  born  1807,  united 
the  Arab  tribes  to  resist  the  French  invasions  of  their  country,  made  himself  recog- 
nized as  the  Emir  of  Mascara,  and  forced  the  French  to  offer  terms  of  peace. 
War  breaking  out  again,  and  the  French  being  again  defeated,  a  larger  force  was 
sent  into  Algeria.  The  incident  of  the  poem  follows  the  seizure  of  the  emir's 
camp,  in  1842,  by  the  Due  d'Aumale,  when  several  thousand  prisoners  were  taken, 
Abd-el-Kadr  himself  escaping  with  difficulty  and  collecting  the  Arabs  for  renewed 
resistance.  He  was  forced  later  to  give  himself  up,  and  was  imprisoned  at  Pau 
until  1852,  when  Louis  Napoleon  freed  him  on  condition  that  he  did  not  return  to 
Algeria.  He  died  in  1883.  — 38.  The  Propket  and  the  Bride.  The  prophet  is  of 
course  Mohammed. 

('Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3 — Dramatic  Lyrics,'  1842.) 

P.  43.  Incident  of  the  French  Camp.  A  story  of  modest  heroism.  The  inci- 
dent related  is  said  by  Mrs.  Orr  to  be  a  true  one  of  the  siege  of  Ratisbon  by 
Napoleon  in  1809  —  except  that  the  real  hero  was  a  man. —  i.  Rat'ubon  (German 
Regensburg)  :  an  ancient  city  of  Bavaria  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Danube,  has 
endured  seventeen  sieges  since  the  tenth  century,  the  last  one  being  that  of  Napo- 
leon, 1809. —  ii.  Lannes,  Duke  of  Montebello,  one  of  Napoleon's  generals. 
('Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  1842.  With  'Soliloquy  in 
a  Spanish  Cloister,'  under  the  title  'Camp  and  Cloister:  I.  Camp  [French],  II. 
Cloister  [Spanish],'  entitled  as  at  present, '  Poems,'  Vol.  II..  1849.) 

P.  44.  The  Lost  Leader  sings  with  undaunted  spirit  the  sad  desertion  of  the 
people's  cause  by  one  who  had  been  one  of  its  leaders.  Asked  if  he  referred  to 
Wordsworth,  Browning  wrote,  in  1875:  — 

"  I  can  only  answer,  with  something  of  shame  and  contrition,  that  I  undoubtedly 
had  Wordsworth  in  my  mind  —  but  simply  as  a  model ;  you  know  an  artist  takes 
one  or  two  striking  traits  in  the  features  of  his  '  model,"  and  uses  them  to  start 
his  fancy  on  a  flight  which  may  end  far  eneugh  from  the  good  man  or  woman  who 
happens  to  be  sitting  for  nose  and  eye.  I  thought  of  the  great  Poet's  abandon- 
ment of  liberalism  at  an  unlucky  juncture,  and  no  repaying  consequence  that  I 
could  ever  see.  But,  once  call  my  fancy-portrait  Wordsworth  —  and  how  much 
more  ought  one  to  say !  " 

Wordsworth,  liberal  in  his  youth,  grew  conservative  with  advancing  years,  op- 
posed Catholic  Emancipation,  the  Reform  Bill,  and  educational  progress.  ('  Bells 
and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  — Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845.) 


464 


NOTES. 


P.  45.  In  a  Gondola  is  a  lyric  dialogue  between  two  Venetian  lovers  who  have 
stolen  away  in  a  gondola  spite  of  "  the  three,"  "  Himself"  —  perhaps  a  husband  — 
and  "  Paul"  and  "  Gian,"  her  brothers,  whose  vengeance  discovers  them  at  the 
end,  but  not  before  their  love  and  danger  have  moved  them  to  weave  a  series  of 
lyrical  fancies  and  led  them  to  a  climax  of  emotion  which  makes  Life  so  deep  a 
joy  that  Death  is  of  no  account. 

"  The  first  stanza  was  written,"  writes  Browning,  "  to  illustrate  Maclise's  picture, 
for  which  he  was  anxious  to  get  some  line  or  two.  I  had  not  seen  it,  but  from 
Forster's  description,  gave  it  to  him  in  his  room,  impromptu.  .  .  .  When  I  did 
see  it  I  thought  the  serenade  too  jolly,  somewhat,  for  the  notion  I  got  from  Forster, 
and  I  took  up  the  subject  in  my  own  way."  —  113.  Lido's  graves.  Jewish  tombs 
were  there. — 127.  Guidecca,  a  canal  of  Venice. — 155.  lory,  a  kind  of  parrot. — 
186.  Schidone's  eager  Duke.  An  imaginary  painting  by  Bartolommeo  Schidone  of 
Modena  (1560-1616).  — 188.  Haste-ihee-Luke,  the  English  form  of  the  nickname, 
Luca-fa-presto,  given  Luca  Giordano  (1632-1705),  a  Neapolitan  painter,  on  account 
of  his  constantly  being  goaded  on  in  his  work  by  his  penurious  and  avaricious  father. 
— 190.  Caste  If ranco,  the  Venetian  painter,  Giorgione,  called  Castelfranco,  because 
born  there,  1478,  died  1511. — 193.  Tizian  (1477-1516).  The  pictures  are  all 
imaginary  but  suggestive  of  the  style  of  each  of  these  artists. 

P.  51.  A  Lovers'  Quarrel  is  a  lover's  protest  against  any  severance  of  the  union 
in  whose  endless  pleasures  his  memory  revels.  His  sudden  word  that  unwittingly 
struck  discord  into  their  happy  world  must  be  too  slight  to  blot  out  the  love  that 
amassed  them  such  memories  and  experiences  of  each  other.  ('  Nfen  and  Women,' 
1855.  Set  to  music  by  E.  C.  Gregory.  London:  Novello,  Ewer,  and  Co.)  — 123. 
Minor  third.  See  '  Toccata  of  Galuppi.' 

P.  56.  Earth's  Immortalities.  A  two-fold  lyric  singing  Time's  power  over 
Fame  and  Love.  The  touch  of  Time  upon  a  poet's  grave  symbolizes  the  one,  his 
deafness  to  the  human  outcry  against  old  age  and  the  progress  of  the  seasons  typi- 
fies the  other.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  —  Dramatic  Romances  and 
Lyrics,'  1845.  Appeared  first  as  I.  and  II.  without  the  sub-titles  which  were  added 
in  1849.) 

P.  56.  The  Last  Ride  Together.  The  rapture  of  a  rejected  lover  in  the  one 
more  last  ride  which  he  asks  for  and  obtains,  discovers  for  him  the  all-sufficing 
glory  of  love  in  itself.  Soldiership,  statesmanship,  art  are  disproportionate  in  their 
results ;  love  can  be  its  own  reward,  yes,  heaven  itself.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  59.  Mesmerism.  With  a  continuous  tension  of  will,  whose  unbroken  con- 
centration impregnates  the  very  structure  of  the  poem,  a  mesmerist  describes  the 
processes  of  the  act  by  which  he  summons  shape  and  soul  of  the  woman  he  desires, 
and  then  reverent  perception  of  the  sacredness  of  the  soul  awes  him  from  tres- 
passing upon  another's  individuality.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  64.  By  the  Fireside.  A  mature  man's  anticipated  reminiscence  in  old  age 
.of  the  scene  and  the  crowning  moment  of  a  ripe  and  perfect  love.  The  initial 
insight  and  force  to  seize  the  vital  moment,  fusing  the  physical  and  spiritual  ele- 
ments of  love  and  testing  the  soul  and%xalting  it  to  the  highest  potency,  is  attrib- 
uted to  the  "  perfect  wife,"  whose  "  great  brow  "  and  "  spirit-small  hand  "  clearly 
refer  to  Mrs.  Browning  and  give  the  situation  of  the  poem  an  autobiographical 
implication.  The  scene  is  placed  in  a  little  mountain  gorge  near  the  baths  of 
Lucca,  where  the  Brownings  passed  the  summer  in  1849  and  in  1853.  "  We  have 
taken  a  sort  of  eagle's  nest  in  this  place,"  writes  Mrs.  Browning,  "  the  highest  house 
of  the  highest  of  the  three  villages  which  are  called  the  Bagni  di  Lucca,  and  which 
lie  at  the  heart  of  a  hundred  mountains  sung  to  continually  by  a  rushing  mountain 


465 

stream.    The  sound  of  the  river  and  of  the  cicale  is  all  the  sound  we  hear  The 

silence  ,s  full I  o  joy  and  consolation.  ...    I  find  myself  able  to  climb  the  hills  with 
Robert  and  help  him  to  lose  himself  in  the  forests."     ("Men  and  Women/ 1855 

P.  72.  Any  Wife  to  any  Husband.  Another  expression  of  the  wife's  superior 
perception  of  the  unity  of  the  physical  and  spiritual  in  love,  and  the  psychical  value 
Of  constancy.  Destined  to  die  first  she  protests  against  the  husband's  wronging 
their  genuine  love  and  his  own  spiritual  dignity  by  indulging  in  cheaper  attractions 
he  would  only  put  up  with  in  her  absence,  and  she  does  not  dare  to  prophesy  his 
loyalty  with  unwavering  trust.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  76.  In  a  Year.  A  woman's  lyric,  unconsciously  dramatizing  her  own  and 
her  fickle  lovers  character,  and  at  last  through  a  truer  estimate  of  the  worth  of  his 
heart  getting  her  own  glimpse  of  the  Divine  quality  residing  in  constancy  (•  Men 
and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  79.  Song  from  'James  Lee.'     (See  '  James  Lee's  Wife,1  Notes,  P.  288.) 
P.  79.  A  Woman's  Last  Word  implies  a  dramatic  situation,  — a  resistance  of 
soul  and  intellect  against  overmastery,  and  gives  lyrical  expression  to  the  pathetic 
outcome  of  the  struggle,  — the  self-surrender  of  a  fond  heart.    ('  Men  and  Women,1 
1855.    Set  to  music  by  Leslie  Johnson.     London  :  Browning  Society.) 

P.  81.  Meeting  at  Night  and  Parting  at  Morning.  Supplementary  pictures  of 
a  love-tryst,  one  giving  the  lover's  impressions  in  turning  at  night  towards  isolation 
with  the  loved  one,  the  other  of  the  return  to  the  larger  needs  and  uses  of  the 
world  at  sunrise.  Whether  the  man  speaks  throughout,  or  in  the  second  part  the 
woman  speaks,  are  open  questions.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7—  Dramatic 
Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845.  Originally  called  '  Night '  and  '  Morning.'  Titled  as 
at  present  in  '  Poems,"  1849.) 

P.  81.  Women  and  Roses.  A  dreamy  glimpse  of  the  actual  woman  animating 
the  past,  present,  and  future  ideals  of  woman  which  are  typified  in  the  poet's  fancy 
by  the  three  roses  faded,  blooming,  and  just  budded,  on  a  rose-tree  sent  by  a  friend 
to  Mrs.  Browning.  He  seeks  in  vain  to  appropriate  the  dearest  of  these  ideals. 
His  only  hold  upon  them  is  through  his  knowledge  of  the  real  womanhood  of  the 
woman  akin  to  them  who  is  closest  to  him.  They  circle  their  particular  rose  on 
his  real  rose-tree.  (Written  in  Paris,  in  1852.  '  Men  and  Women,1  1855.) 

P.  83.  Misconceptions  sings  the  lover's  flitting  moment  of  joy  in  a  love  fully 
answering  his  own  ere  undeceived  like  the  spray  which  the  bird  clung  to,  he  learns 
that  the  queen,  like  the  bird,  had  but  casually  used  his  help  in  order  to  pass  on 
to  a  happiness  beyond  him.  ('  Men  and  Women,1  1855.  Set  to  music  by  E.  C. 
Gregory.  London :  Novello,  Ewer,  and  Co.) 

P.  83.  A  Pretty  Woman  is  a  light  sketch  of  a  typical  pretty  woman  whose  brains 
and  heart  are  rudimentary,  and  of  the  typical  treatment  she  receives  from  men, 
who  make  her  their  peculiar  prize  for  .their  cleverness  or  valor,  "a  word's  sake  or 
a  sword's  sake.'1  The  "  Conclusion  "  to  try  is,  —  why  crush  her  for  lack  of  qualities 
debarred  her,  or  lavish  devotion  upon  her  fruitlessly.  Rather  appreciate  her  beauty 
by  leaving  it  unsullied,  as  its  own  excuse  for  being.  The  Oriental  treatment  of 
pretty  women  is  dexterously  intimated  in  the  craftsman's  way  to  grace  a  rose. 
('  Men  and  Women,1  1855.) 

P.  86.  A  Light  Woman  is  the  story  of  a  dramatic  situation  brought  about  by  the 
speaker's  intermeddling  to  save  his  less  sophisticated  friend  from  a  light  woman's 
toils.  He  deflects  her  interest  and  wins  her  heart,  and  this  is  the  ironical  outcome : 
his  friendly,  dispassionate  act  makes  him  seem  to  his  friend  a  disloyal  passion's 
slave ;  his  scorn  of  the  light  woman  teaches  him  her  genuineness  and  proves  him- 
self lighter  than  she ;  his  futile  assumption  of  the  god  maneuvering  souls  makes 
2H 


466 


NOTES. 


the  whole  story  dramatically  imply,  in  a  way  dear  to  Browning's  heart,  the  sacred 
ness  and  worth  of  each  individuality.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  88.  Love  in  a  Life,  and  Life  in  a  Love  are  lyrical  expressions,  the  first  of  the 
search  for  love  as  an  uncertain,  undiscovered  ideal,  the  other  of  the  pursuit  of  love 
as  an  ideal  that  is  sure  and  discovered,  the  first  consisting  in  the  attempt  to  pain 
A  love  within  a  life,  the  other  in  the  spending  of  a  life  in  love's  attainment.  ('  Men 
and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  89.  The  Laboratory  presents  as  an  episode  in  the  course  of  a  ball  the  scene 
and  agents  of  a  jealous  woman's  preparation  to  poison  her  rival,  the  social  and 
scientific  conditions  of  the  feudal  period  being  illustrated  by  this  glimpse  of  a 
laboratory  dim  with  arsenic  fumes,  of  the  fierce,  chattering  little  lady  peering 
through  her  protecting  glass  mask,  and  the  morose  old  alchemist  including  a  kiss 
in  his  pay.  (Hood's  Magazine,  June,  1844.  '  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  — 
Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845,  appearing  with  '  The  Confessional'  under 
the  general  title  '  France  and  Spain.') 

P.  91.  Gold  Hair.  A  quizzical  story  playing  with  the  pious  naivetes  of  a  guide- 
book legend.  It  tells  how  a  reputed  girl-saint  of  good  family  in  Brittany  valued 
the  gold  of  this  life  spite  of  heaven  and  the  grave,  and,  managing  to  hide  her 
money  in  her  beautiful  gold  hair  before  she  died,  remained  in  men's  praise  as  a 
model  of  sanctity,  and  was  only  detected  as  a  miser  years  afterwards  when  her 
skull  was  found  in  her  coffin  wedged  in  with  her  dear  gold  coins.  The  sophistical 
moral  suggested  is  that  such  a  marvellous  and  damning  mixture  of  good  and  evil  in 
the  human  heart  as  this  story  lays  bare  warrants  flie  doctrine  of  Original  Sin  and 
supplies  a  reason  for  sticking  to  the  Christian  faith,  despite  Bishop  Colenso  and 
the  '  Essays  and  Reviews.'  —  143.  Essays  and  Reviews.  A  collection  of  seven  dis- 
sertations by  Dr.  Temple  of  Rugby,  Professor  Jowett  of  Oxford,  and  other  English 
churchmen,  on  theological  topics,  all  bearing  on  the  advantage  to  religion  and 
morality  derivable  from  a  freer  scrutiny  of  the  Bible,  the  character  of  its  facts,  and 
the  nature  of  its  authority  as  a  sacred  book.  It  was  a  shock  to  many  and  it  ex- 
cited much  discussion,  initiating  in  England  what  is  now  known  as  the  Higher 
Criticism  of  the  Bible. —  145.  Colenso.  Bishop  of  Natal,  South  Africa  —  whose  ex- 
amination of  the  Bible  was  instigated  by  the  questions  of  a  Zulu  native  —  published 
in  1862  the  first  volume  of  his  work  on  the  Pentateuch,  which  added  fuel  to  the 
debate  stirred  up  by  the  '  Essays  and  Reviews.'  (Written  in  Normandy  and 
printed  as  a  leaflet.  '  Dramatis  Personse,'  1864.) 

P.  96.  The  Statue  and  the  Bust  creates  the  characters  and  the  situation,  and 
dramatically  represents  a  story  which  is  based  on  a  Florentine  tradition  that  Duke 
Ferdinand  I.  placed  his  equestrian  statue  in  the  Piazza  dell'  Annuziata  so  that  he 
might  gaze  forever  towards  the  old  Riccardi  palace,  where  a  lady  he  loved  was 
imprisoned  by  her  jealous  husband.  The  bride  and  her  ducal  lover  are  seen  ex- 
changing their  first  looks,  through  which  they  perceive  the  genuineness  of  their 
love;  and  the  temporizing  of  each  is  presented,  through  which,  for  the  sake  oi 
petty  conveniences,  they  submit  to  be  thwarted  by  the  wary  husband,  and  to  have 
the  end  they  count  supreme  delayed  until  love  and  youth  have  gone,  and  the  best 
left  them  is  the  artificial  gaze  interchanged  by  a  bronze  statue  in  the  square  and  a 
clay  face  at  the  window.  The  closing  stanzas  point  the  moral  against  the  palsy 
of  the  will  whose  strenuous  exercise  is  life's  main  gift. —  I.  There's  a  palace  in 
Florence  refers  to  the  old  Riccardi  palace,  now  the  Palazzo  Antinori,  in  the  square 
of  the  Annuziata,  where  the  statue  still  stands.  —  33.  The  pile  -which  the  mighty 
shadow  makes  refers  to  another  palace  in  the  Via  Larga  where  the  duke  (not  the 
lady)  lived,  and  which  is  to-day  known  as  the  Riccardi  Palace.  Cooke's  '  Brown- 


NOTES. 

ing  Guide  Book'  and  Berdoe's  'Browning  Cyclopedia'  both  confuse  the  two 
attributing  error  to  Browning  in  spite  of  his  letter  about  it.  This  confusion  was 
cleared  up  by  Harriet  Ford  (Poet-lore,  Dec.,  1891.  Vol.  III.,  p.  648  '  Browning  right 
about  the  Riccardi  Palace.1)  —36.  Because  of  a  crime,  etc.  refers  to  the  destroying 
of  the  liberties  of  the  Florentine  republic  by  Cosimo  dei  Medici  and  his  grandson, 
Lorenzo,  who  lived  in  the  then  Medici  (now  Riccardi)  Palace,  whose  darkening 
of  the  street  with  its  bulk  symbolizes  the  crime  which  took  the  light  from  Florence. 

—  94.  Arno  bowers.     The  palace  by  the  Arno,  the  river  flowing  through  Florence! 

—  95.  Petraja,  a  Florentine  suburb.  — 69.  Robbia's  craft.    The  Robbia  family  were 
skilled  in  shaping  the  bisque  known  as  Delia  Robbia  ware  which  was  long  one 
of  the  Florentine  manufactures,  and  traces  of  which,  when  Browning  wrote,  still 
adorned  the  outer  cornice  of  the  palace.  — 202.  John  of  Douay,  sculptor,  1524-1608. 
The  statue  is  one  of  his  finest  works.  — 237.  De  te,  fabulat  Concerning  thee, 
this  fable !     ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  103.  Love  among  the  Ruins.  A  lover,  meditating,  draws  a  contrast  show- 
ing  how  the  ruined  spot  where  he  and  the  beloved  one  meet  —  "The  single  little 
turret  that  remains  on  the  plains  "  from  which  kings  were  once  wont  to  look  forth 

—  is  more  glorified  by  the  perfect  love  existing  between  them  than  it  has  ever  been 
in  the  past  when  the  ancient  city  stood  there  with  all  its  pomp  of  triumph  and  war, 
its  folly  and  noise  and  sin.    The  poem  was  written  in  Rome  in  the  winter  of  1853- 
54  when  Robert  and  Mrs.  Browning  were  staying  there.  —  21.  hundred-gated  circuit 
of  a  -wall.    The  poet  perhaps  had  in  mind  Homer's  description  of  Thebes  as  the 
"  hundred-gated  "  city.    Rome  never  had  more  than  twenty  (or  possibly  a  few  over 
twenty)  gates.     Homer's  epithet  evidently  applied  to  the  gates  of  the  temples,  as 
Thebes  was  not  a  walled  city.     ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  105.  Time's  Revenges.  An  author  soliloquizes  in  his  garret  over  the  fact 
that  he  possesses  a  friend  who  loves  him  and  would  do  anything  in  his  power  to 
serve  him,  but  for  whom  he  cares  almost  nothing.  At  the  same  time  he  himself 
loves  a  woman  to  such  distraction  that  he  counts  himself  crowned  with  love's  best 
crown  while  sacrificing  his  soul,  his  body,  his  peace,  and  his  fame  in  brooding  on 
his  love,  while  she  could  calmly  decree  that  he  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire  if  it  would 
compass  her  frivolously  ambitious  designs.  Thus  his  indifference  to  his  friend  is 
avenged  by  the  indifference  the  lady  shows  toward  him.  —  46.  the  Florentine,  Dante. 
Used  here,  seemingly,  as  a  symbol  of  the  highest  attainments  in  poesy,  his  (the 
speaker's)  reverence  for  which  is  so  great  that  he  would  rather  put  his  cheek  under 
his  lady's  foot  than  that  poetry  should  suffer  any  indignity  at  his  hands ;  yet  in 
spite  of  all  the  possibilities  open  to  him  through  his  enthusiasm  for  poetry,  he 
prefers  wasting  his  entire  energies  upon  one  unworthy  of  him.  ('  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates, No.  7 —  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845.) 

P.  107.  Waring.  In  recounting  the  sudden  disappearance  from  among  his 
friends  of  a  man  proud  and  sensitive,  who  with  fine  powers  of  intellect  yet  incurred 
somewhat  of  disdain  because  of  his  failure  to  accomplish  anything  permanent, 
expression  is  given  to  the  deep  regret  experienced  by  his  friends  now  that  he  has 
left  them,  his  absence  having  brought  them  to  a  truer  realization  of  his  worth.  If 
only  Waring  would  come  back,  the  speaker,  at  least,  would  give  him  the  sympathy 
and  encouragement  he  craved  instead  of  playing  with  his  sensibilities  as  he  had 
done.  Conjectures  are  indulged  in  as  to  Waring's  whereabouts.  The  speaker 
prefers  to  think  of  him  as  back  in  London  preparing  to  astonish  the  world  with 
some  great  masterpiece  in  art,  music,  or  literature.  Another  speaker  surprises  all 
by  telling  how  he  had  seen  the  "last  of  Waring"  in  a  momentary  meeting  at 
Trieste,  but  the  first  speaker  is  certain  that  the  star  of  Waring  is  destined  to  rise 


468  NOTES. 

again  above  their  horizon. —  i.  Waring.  Alfred  Domett  (born  at  Camberwell 
Grove,  Surrey,  May  20,  1811),  a  friend  of  Browning's,  distinguished  as  a  poet  and 
as  a  Colonial  statesman  and  ruler.  His  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in 
1832.  Some  verses  of  his  in  Blackwood's,  1837,  attracted  much  attention  to  him  as 
a  rising  young  poet.  In  1841  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  and  in  1842  went  out  to 
New  Zealand  among  the  earliest  settlers.  There  he  lived  for  thirty  years,  filling 
several  important  official  positions.  His  unceremonious  departure  for  New  Zea- 
land with  no  leave-takings  was  the  occasion  of  Browning's  poem,  which  is  said  by 
Mrs.  Orr  to  give  a  lifelike  sketch  of  Domett's  character.  His  "  star"  did,  however, 
rise  again  for  his  English  friends,  for  he  returned  to  London  in  1871.  The  year 
following  saw  the  publication  of  his  '  Ranolf  and  Amohia,'  a  New  Zealand  poem,  in 
the  course  of  which  he  characterizes  Browning  as  "Subtlest  Asserter  of  the  Soul  in 
Song."  He  met  Browning  again  in  London,  and  was  one  of  the  vice-presidents  of 
the  London  Browning  Society.  Died  Nov.  12,  1877.  —  15.  /  left  his  arm  that  night 
myself.  Geo.  W.  Cooke  points  out  that  in  his  '  Living  Authors  of  England  '  Thomas 
Powell  describes  this  incident,  the  'young  author'  mentioned  being  himself:  — 

"  We  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  last  time  we  saw  him.  It  was  at  an  even- 
ing party,  a  few  days  before  he  sailed  from  England;  his  intimate  friend,  Mr. 
Browning,  was  also  present.  It  happened  that  the  latter  was  introduced  that 
evening  for  the  first  time  to  a  young  author  who  had  just  then  appeared  in  the 
literary  world.  This,  consequently,  prevented  the  two  friends  from  conversation, 
and  they  parted  from  each  other  without  the  slightest  idea  on  Mr.  Browning's  part 
that  he  was  seeing  his  old  friend  Domett  for  the  last  time.  Some  days  after,  when 
he  found  that  Domett  had  sailed,  he  expressed  in  strong  terms  to  the  writer  of  this 
sketch  the  self-reproach  he  felt  at  having  preferred  the  conversation  of  a  stranger 
to  that  of  his  old  associate." 

—  54.  Monstr -inform' -ingens-horrend-ous,  a  slight  transposition  of  part  of  a  line 
in  Virgil  describing  Polyphemus,  "Monstrum  horrendum  informc  ingens"  a  mon 
ster  horrid,  misshapen,  huge.  —  55.  Demoniaco-seraphic.  These  two  lines  form  a 
compound  of  adjectives  humorously  used  by  Browning  to  express  the  inferiority  of 
the  writers  he  praised  to  Waring. — 99.  Ichabod,  "  Ichabod,  the  glory  is  departed," 
I  Samuel  iv.  21. — 122.  lambwhite  maiden.  Iphigenia,  who  was  borne  away  to 
Taurus  by  Diana,  when  her  father,  Agamemnon,  was  about  to  sacrifice  her  to 
obtain  favorable  winds  for  his  expedition  to  Troy. — 152.  Caldara  Polidore,  a  cele- 
brated painter,  born  in  Milan,  1492,  went  to  Rome  and  was  employed  by  Raphael 
to  paint  the  friezes  in  the  Vatican,  was  murdered  by  a  servant  in  Messina,  1543. — 
155.  Purcell.  An  eminent  English  musician,  composer  of  church  music,  operas, 
songs,  and  instrumental  music  (1658-1695).  Rosy  Bowers.  One  of  Purcell's  most 
celebrated  songs.  "  '  From  Rosie  Bowers  '  is  said  to  have  been  set  in  his  last  sick- 
ness, at  which  time  he  seems  to  have  realized  the  poetical  fable  of  the  Swan  and  to 
have  sung  more  sweetly  as  he  approached  nearer  his  dissolution,  for  it  seems  to  us 
as  if  no  one  of  his  productions  was  so  elevated,  so  pleasing,  so  expressive,  and 
throughout  so  perfect  as  this."  (Rees's  Cyclopaedia,  1819.)  — 190.  Garrick,  David. 
An  English  actor,  celebrated  especially  for  his  Shakespearian  parts  (1716-1779). — 
193.  Junius,  the  assumed  name  of  a  political  writer  who  in  1769  began  to  issue  in 
London  a  series  of  famous  letters  which  opposed  the  ministry  in  power  and 
denounced  several  eminent  persons  with  severe  invective  and  pungent  sarcasm. — 
195.  Some  Chatterton  shall  have  the  luck  of  calling  Rowley  into  life.  The  chief 
claim  to  celebrity  of  Thomas  Chatterton  (1752-1770)  is  the  real  or  pretended  dis- 
covery of  poems  said  to  have  been  written  in  the  fifteenth  century  by  Thomas 
Rowley,  a  priest  of  Bristol,  and  found  in  Radcliffe  church,  of  which  Chatterton's 


NOTES. 

ancestors  had  been  sextons  for  many  years.    They  are  now  generally  considered 
Chatterton's  own.     ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3—  Dramatic  Lyrics,1  1842.) 

P.  113.  Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad.  Expresses  the  longing  for  home  of  one 
who  when  spring  comes  remembers  the  joyous,  dainty  beauties  of  the  English 
spring.  The  gaudy  melon  flower  at  hand,  symbolic  of  the  rankness  of  a  southern 
spring,  is  dull  in  comparison  with  the  gay  buttercups  that  little  children  love, 
('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  — Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,1  1845.) 

P.  113.  The  Italian  in  England.  An  Italian  patriot  who  has  taken  part  in  an 
unsuccessful  revolt  against  Austrian  dominance,  reflects  upon  the  incidents  of  his 
escape  and  flight  from  Italy  to  the  end  that  if  he  ever  should  have  a  thought 
beyond  the  welfare  of  Italy,  he  would  wish  first  for  the  discomfiture  of  his  enemies 
and  then  to  go  and  see  once  more  the  noble  woman  who  at  the  risk  of  her  own 
life  helped  him  to  escape.  —  Though  there  is  no  exact  historical  incident  upon 
which  this  poem  is  founded,  it  has  a  historical  background.  The  Charles  referred 
to  (lines  8,  n,  20,  116,  125)  is  Charles  Albert,  Prince  of  Carignano,  of  the  younger 
branch  of  the  house  of  Savoy.  His  having  played  with  the  patriot  in  his  youth,  as 
the  poem  says,  is  quite  possible,  for  Charles  was  brought  up  as  a  simple  citizen  in 
a  public  school,  and  one  of  his  chief  friends  was  Alberta  Nota,  a  writer  of  liberal 
principles,  whom  he  made  his  secretary.  As  indicated  in  the  poem,  Charles  at  first 
declared  himself  in  sympathy,  though  in  a  somewhat  lukewarm  manner,  with  the 
rising  led  by  Santa  Rosa  against  Austrian  domination  in  1823,  and  upon  the  abdi- 
cation of  Victor  Emanuel  he  became  regent  of  Turin.  But  when  the  king  Charles 
Felix  issued  a  denunciation  against  the  new  government,  Charles  Albert  succumbed 
to  the  king's  threats  and  left  his  friends  in  the  lurch.  Later  the  Austrians  marched 
into  the  country,  Santa  Rosa  was  forced  to  retreat  from  Turin,  and,  with  his  friends, 
he  who  might  well  have  been  the  very  patriot  of  the  poem,  was  obliged  to  fly  from 
Italy.  — 19.  Meiternich.  The  distinguished  Austrian  diplomatist  and  determined 
enemy  of  Austrian  independence.  —  76.  Tenebra,  darkness.  "The  office  of  matins 
and  lauds,  for  the  three  last  days  in  Holy  Week.  Fifteen  lighted  candles  are 
placed  on  a  triangular  stand,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  each  psalm  one  is  put  out 
till  a  single  candle  is  left  at  the  top  of  the  triangle.  The  extinction  of  the  other 
candles  is  said  to  figure  the  growing  darkness  of  the  world  at  the  time  of  the 
Crucifixion.  The  last  candle  (which  is  not  extinguished,  but  hidden  behind  the 
altar  for  a  few  moments)  represents  Christ,  over  whom  Death  could  not  prevail " 
(Dr.  Berdoe).  ('Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  —  Dramatic  Romances  and 
Lyrics,'  1845.) 

P.  117.  The  Englishman  in  Italy.  A  graphic,  humorous  picture  of  peasant 
life  on  the  plain  of  Sorrento  is  here  presented  by  an  Englishman,  who  tells  his 
memories  of  various  scenes  grown  familiar  to  his  foreign  eyes  in  order  to  keep  a 
little  peasant  girl  amused  during  the  gloom  of  Ihe  bcirocco,  just  as  he  is  pre- 
occupying himself  in  Italy,  while  in  his  own  England  another  sort  of  tempest  is 
abroad  and  men  are  actually  debating  in  parliament  the  use  of  abolishing  the 
gloom  of  a  human  Scirocco,  namely,  the  misery  caused  by  the  corn-laws.— 
3.  Scirocco.  A  fierce  hot  wind  from  Africa  crossing  the  Mediterranean  in  autumn. 
—  loo.  Isles  of  the  Siren.  The  three  islands  off  the  coast,  one  and  one  half  mile; 
from  Crapolla,  supposed  to  be  those  described  in  the  Odyssey  (Bk.  xii.  and  xxiii.) 
where  the  sirens  sang,  and  referred  to  by  Virgil  in  ^Eneid  v.  1125.  — 125.  Feast  o) 
the  Rosary.  The  anniversary  of  the  battle  of  Lepanto,  where  the  Turkish  fleet  was 
destroyed  by  the  Catholic  powers  of  Europe,  and  for  which  victory  our  Lady  of  the 
Rosary  receives  annual  thanks.  — 145.  Corn-laws.  In  October,  1845,  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  England's  prime  minister,  asked  his  cabinet  to  concur  with  him  in  relieving 


470  NOTES. 

the  people  from  the  duty  on  corn  or  grain-stuffs,  repealing  the  law  passed  by  the 
parliament  of  1815  in  the  interest  of  land-holders.  It  excited  the  stormy  opposition 
to  which  the  poem  refers,  resulting,  however,  in  the  passing  of  Peel's  bill  in  June, 
1846. — 186.  Calvano.  Browning  is  not  sure  he  used  the  right  name  for  the  great 
mountain  opposite  Sorrento.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  —  Dramatic  Ro- 
mances and  Lyrics,'  1845.) 

P.  120.  Up  at  a  Villa  —  Down  in  the  City.  A  humorous  portraiture  of  a 
pleasure-loving  Italian  nobleman  who  contrasts  the  boredom  of  life  in  the  country 
with  the  excitements  of  town-life,  and  sighs  over  the  expense  of  the  city  which 
condemns  him  to  his  rustic  villa.  —  52.  Seven  Swords.  Figurative  of  the  Seven 
Sorrows  of  Our  Lady,  and  contrasting  naively  with  the  pink  gauze  and  spangles. 
—  56.  Tax  on  salt  .  .  .  oil  pays  passing  the  gate.  Italy's  system  of  revenue  in- 
cluded a  tax  on  salt,  and  the  octroi,  or  town  dues,  must  be  paid  on  all  provisions 
entering  the  city-gates.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  123.  Pictor  Ignotus  is  a  reverie  characteristic  of  a  monastic  painter  of  the 
Renaissance  who  recognizes,  in  the  genius  of  a  youth  whose  pictures  are  praised, 
a  gift  akin  to  his  own,  but  which  he  has  never  so  exercised,  spite  of  the  joy  such 
free  human  expression  and  recognition  of  his  power  would  have  given  him, 
because  he  could  not  bear  to  submit  his  art  to  worldly  contact.  So,  he  has  chosen 
to  sink  his  name  in  unknown  service  to  the  Church,  and  to  devote  his  fancy  to  pure 
and  beautiful,  but  cold  and  monotonous,  repetitions  of  sacred  themes.  His  gentle 
regret  that  his  own  pictures  will  moulder  unvisited  is  half  wonderment  that  the 
youth  can  endure  the  sullying  of  his  work  by  secular  fame.  ('  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates, No.  7 —  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845.) 

P.  124.  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  is  a  dramatic  monologue  which  incidentally  conveys 
the  whole  story  of  the  occurrence  the  poem  starts  from  —  the  seizure  of  Fra  Lippo 
by  the  City  Guards,  past  midnight,  in  an  equivocal  neighborhood  —  and  the  lively 
talk  that  arose  thereupon ;  outlines  the  character  and  past  life  of  the  artist-monk 
and  the  subordinate  personalities  of  the  group  of  officers ;  and  makes  all  this 
cohere  towards  the  presentation  of  Fra  Lippo  as  a  type  of  the  more  realistic  and 
secular  artist  of  the  Renaissance  who  valued  flesh,  and  protested  against  the 
ascetic  spirit  which  strove  to  isolate  the  soul.  The  poem's  presentation  of  Fra 
Lippo  (1412-1469)  breathes  life  into  the  passages  from  Vasari's  Lives  which  it  fol- 
lows thus  :  —  Vasari :  "  The  Carmelite  Monk  Fra  Filippo  di  Tommaso  Lippi  was 
born  in  a  bye  street  .  .  .  behind  the  Convent."  Browning:  7.  "  The  Carmine's 
very  Cloister."  Vasari:  "  Cosimo  de  Medici,  wishing  him  to  execute  a  work  in 
his  own  palace,  shut  him  up,  that  he  might  not  waste  his  time  in  running  about; 
but  having  endured  this  confinement  for  two  days  he  made  ropes  with  the  sheets 
of  his  bed  ...  let  himself  down  from  a  window  .  .  .  and  for  several  days  gave 
himself  up  to  his  amusements."  Brng. :  15.  "  Lodging  with  a  friend  .  .  . 

Cosimo  of  the  Medici,"  etc.  47.  "Three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew,  etc 

Into  shreds  it  went,"  etc.  [Browning  apologizes  a  little  for  the  Frate  by  making 
the  confinement  three  weeks  instead  of  two  days,  and  giving  him  only  one  night's 
revelry.]  Vasari:  "By  the  death  of  his  father  he  was  left  a  friendless  orphan 
at  the  age  of  two  years  .  .  .  for  some  time  under  the  care  of  Mona  Lapaccia 
his  aunt,  who  brought  him  up  with  very  great  difficulty  till  his  eighth  year,  when, 
being  no  longer  able  to  support  the  burden,  she  placed  him  in  the  Convent  of 
the  Carmelites  .  .  .  Placed  with  others  under  the  care  of  a  master  to  ...  see 
what  could  be  done  with  him ;  in  place  of  studying  he  never  did  anything  but 
daub  his  books  with  caricatures,  whereupon  the  prior  determined  to  give  him  .  .  . 
opportunity  for  learning  to  draw.  The  chapel,  then  newly  painted  by  Masaccio, 


NOTES. 


471 


...  he  frequented,  and  practising  there  .  .  .  surpassed  all  the  others  .  .  .  while 
still  very  young  painted  a  picture  in  the  cloister  .  .  .  with  others  in  fresco  .  .  . 
among  these  John  the  Baptist."  Brng. :  81.  "I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother 
died,"  etc. ;  129.  "  I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy  books,"  etc. ;  136.  "  Nay,  quoth 
the  Prior,"  etc.;  196.  "  Herodias  I  would  say,"  etc.  Vasari:  "For  the  nuns  of 
Sant'  Ambrogio  he  painted  a  most  beautiful  picture."  [The  Virgin  crowned 
with  angels  and  saints,  now  in  Florence  at  the  Belle  Arti.  Vasari  says  by 
means  of  it  he  became  known  to  Cosimo.  Browning  on  the  other  hand  crowns 
his  poem  with  Lippo's  description  of  this  picture  as  an  expiation  for  his  pranks.] 
Brng.  :  345.  "  I  shall  paint  a  piece  .  .  .  Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's,"  etc.  —  23. 
pilchards,  a  kind  of  fish.  —  53.  Flower  o'  the  broom.  Of  the  many  varieties  of  folk- 
songs in  Italy  that  which  furnished  Browning  with  a  model  for  Lippo's  songs  is 
called  a  stornello.  The  name  is  variously  derived.  Some  take  it  as  merely  short 
for  ritornello,  others  derive  it  from  a  storno,  to  sing  against  each  other,  because  the 
peasants  sing  them  at  their  work,  and  as  one  ends  a  song,  another  caps  it  with  a 
fresh  one,  and  so  on.  These  stornelli  consist  of  three  lines.  The  first  usually  con- 
tains the  name  of  a  flower  which  sets  the  rhyme,  and  is  five  syllables  long.  Then 
the  love  theme  is  told  in  two  lines  of  eleven  syllables  each,  agreeing  by  rhyme, 
assonance,  or  repetition  with  the  first,  — 

"  Flower  of  the  fern  ! 

Wherever  you  pass  by,  the  grass  springs  green 
And  blooms  or  ever  summer  doth  return." 

The  last  two  lines  lose  a  syllable  in  the  translation. 

The  address  to  the  flower  usually  has  no  connection  with  the  sentiment  ex- 
pressed in  the  lines  following,  a  very  evident  example  of  which  are  these,— 

"  Flower  of  the  broom  bough ! 
If  you  want  a  husband  make  you  one  of  dough, 
Dress  him  up  and  put  him  in  the  window  for  a  show." 

In  some  cases,  salt,  pepper,  lemons,  and  even  cigars  are  used  in  the  first  line  instead 
of  flowers.  The  first  line  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  burden  set  at  the  beginning 
instead  of,  as  is  more  familiar  to  us.  at  the  end.  There  are  also  stornelli  formed 
of  three  lines  of  eleven  syllables  without  any  burden. 

Browning  has  made  Lippo's  songs  of  only  two  lines,  but  he  has  strictly  followed 
the  rule  of  making  the  first  line,  containing  the  address  to  the  flower,  of  five 
syllables.  The  Tuscany  versions  of  two  of  the  songs  used  by  Browning  are  as 

follows :  — 

"  Flower  of  the  pine ! 
Call  me  not  ever  happy  heart  again, 
But  call  me  heavy  heart,  O  comrades  mine." 

"  Flower  of  the  broom ! 
Unwed  thy  mother  keeps  thee  not  to  lose  ^ 
That  flower  from  the  window  of  the  room." 

68.  Saint  Laurence.    The  church  of  San  Lorenzo,  -xax.  The  Eight.    The :  magis- 
trates of  Florence.  - 130.  antiphonary,  the  Roman  Service-Book,  containing  a 
sung  in  the  choir -the  antiphones,  responses,  etc. ;  it  was  compiled  by  Grego 
Grelt  - 131.  Joined  arms  and  legs  to  the  long  munc-notes.     The  musical  notat.on 
of  Lippo's  da/was  entirely  different  from  ours,  the  notes  being  square  and  < 


472  NOTES. 

and  rather  less  suited  for  arms  and  legs  than  the  present  rounded  notes.  — 139. 
Camaldotese.  Monks  of  Camaldoli.  Preaching  Friars.  The  Dominicans.  — 
189.  Giotto.  The  painter,  sculptor,  and  architect  (1266-1337).  —  235.  Brother 
Angelica.  Fra  Angelico,  Giovanni  da  Fiesole  (1387-1455),  of  the  monastic 
school,  who  was  said  to  paint  on  his  knees.  —  236.  Brother  Lorenzo.  Lorenzo 
Monaca  of  the  same  school.  —  276.  Guide.  Tommaso  Guidi,  or  Masaccio,  nick- 
named "Hulking  Tom"  (1401-1429).  [Vasari  makes  him  Lippo's  predecessor. 
Browning  followed  the  best  knowledge  of  his  time  in  making  him,  instead,  Lippo's 
pupil.  Vasari  is  now  thought  to  be  right.]  — 323.  A  Saint  Laurence  at  Prato.  Near 
Florence,  where  Lippi  painted  many  saints.  [Vasari  speaks  of  a  St.  Stephen 
painted  there  in  the  same  realistic  manner  as  Browning's  St.  Laurence,  whose 
martyrdom  of  broiling  to  death  on  a  gridiron  affords  Lippo's  powers  a  livelier 
effect.]  The  legend  of  this  saint  makes  his  fortitude  such  that  he  bade  his  perse- 
cutors turn  him  over,  as  he  was  "  done  on  one  side." — 346.  Sanf  Ambrogio.  St. 
Ambrose  Church  in  Florence.  —  377.  Iste  perfecit  opus.  This  one  completed  the 
work.  (Written  at  Rome  in  the  winter  of  1853-1854.  '  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  133.  Andrea  del  Sarto.  The  interaction  and  interdependence  of  Andrea  del 
Sarto's  own  nature  upon  his  choice  of  a  wife  and  the  character  of  his  art  are 
revealed  in  this  monologue,  along  with  the  personalities  of  both  Andrea  and 
Lucrezia,  the  degrading  influence  of  their  relationship,  and  the  main  incidents  ol 
their  lives,  the  whole  serving  to  illustrate  the  picture  on  which  the  poem  is  based. 
The  gray  tone  that  silvers  the  picture  pervades  the  poem  with  an  air  of  helpless, 
resigned  melancholy,  and  sets  forth  the  fatal  quality  of  facile  craftsmanship  joined 
with  a  flaccid  spirit.  Mr.  John  Kenyon,  Mrs.  Browning's  cousin,  asked  Browning 
to  get  him  a  copy  of  the  picture  of  Andrea  and  his  wife  in  the  Pitti  Palace.  Brown- 
ing, being  unable  to  find  one,  wrote  this  poem  describing  it,  instead.  Andrea, 
(1486-1531),  because  his  father  was  a  tailor,  was  called  del  Sarto,  also,  il  pittore 
senza  errori,  "  the  faultless  painter."  Vasari's  Life  of  him  supplied  the  poet  with 
material  as  follows  :  —  Brng.  :  I.  "  Do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more,"  etc.  Vasari  : 
"  He  destroyed  his  own  peace  and  estranged  his  friends  by  marrying  Lucrezia 
di  Baccio  del  Fede,  a  cap-maker's  widow  who  ensnared  him  before  her  husband's 
death,  and  who  delighted  in  trapping  the  hearts  of  men  ...  he  soon  became 
jealous  and  found  that  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  an  artful  woman  who  made 
him  do  as  she  pleased  in  all  things  .  .  .  but  although  Andrea  lived  in  ...  torment 
he  yet  accounted  it  a  high  pleasure."  Brng.  :  60.  "  I  can  do  with  my  pencil  .  .  . 
easily,  too,  .  .  .  what  many  dream  of,"  etc.  82.  "  This  low-pulsed  forthright  crafts- 
man's hand,"  etc.  Vasari  :  "  Art  and  nature  combined  to  show  all  that  may  be 
done  in  painting  when  design,  coloring,  and  invention  unite  in  the  same  person. 
Had  this  master  possessed  a  somewhat  bolder  and  more  elevated  mind  ...  he 
would  have  been  without  an  equal.  But  there  was  a  certain  timidity  of  mind,  a 
sort  of  diffidence  and  want  offeree  in  his  nature,  which  rendered  it  impossible  that 
.  .  .  ardor  and  animation,  which  are  proper  to  the  more  exalted  character,  should 
ever  appear  in  him  .  .  .  His  figures  are  well  drawn  .  .  .  free  from  errors  .  .  .  the 
coloring  exquisite."  Brng. :  98.  "  All  is  silver  gray,  placid  and  perfect,"  etc. 
Vasari  :  "  Andrea  understood  the  management  of  light  and  shade  most  perfectly, 
causing  the  objects  depicted  to  take  their  due  degree  of  prominence  or  to  retire 
within  the  shadows."  Brng.  :  76.  "  Some  one  says."  184.  "  Said  Agnolo  ...  to 
Raphael."  189.  "  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub,"  etc.  Vasari  :  "  If  he 
had  remained  in  Rome  when  he  went  thither  to  see  the  works  of  Raffaello  and 
Michelagnolo  .  .  .  would  eventually  have  attained  the  power  of  imparting  a  more 
elevated  character  and  increased  force  to  his  figures  . . .  nay,  there  are  not  wanting 


473 

those  who  affirm  he  would  .  .  .  have  surpassed  all  the  artists  of  his  time 
Raffaello  and  other  young  artists  whom  he  perceived  to  possess  great  power 
deprived  Andrea,  timid  as  he  was,  of  courage  to  make  trial  of  himself."  Michael 
Angelo's  remark  to  Raphael  is  given  thus  by  Bocchi,  '  Bellezze  di  Firenze  '  "  There 
is  a  bit  of  a  mannikin  in  Florence  who,  if  he  chanced  to  be  employed'  in  great 
undertakings  as  you  have  happened  to  be,  would  compel  you  to  look  well  about 
you."  Brng. :  149.  "  That  Francis  .  .  .  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  " 
etc.  Vasari :  "  Two  pictures  he  had  sent  into  France,  obtaining  much  admiration 
from  King  Francis  .  .  .  that  monarch  was  told  he  might  prevail  upon  Andrea  to 
visit  France  ...  the  king  therefore  gave  orders  that  a  sum  of  money  should  be 
paid  to  Andrea  for  the  expenses  of  the  journey  ...  his  arrival  was  marked  by 
proofs  of  liberality  and  courtesy  ...  his  labors  rendering  him  so  acceptable  to 
the  king  and  the  whole  court,  his  departure  from  his  native  country  appeared 
to  have  conducted  him  from  wretchedness  to  felicity  .  .  .  But  one  day  .  .  .  came 
to  him  certain  letters  from  Florence  written  to  him  by  his  wife  .  .  .  with  bitter 
complaints  .  .  .  Moved  by  all  this  he  resolved  to  resume  his  chain  .  .  .  Taking 
the  money  which  the  king  confided  to  him  for  the  purchase  of  pictures  and  statues 
...  he  set  off  ...  having  sworn  on  the  gospels  to  return  in  a  few  months. 
Arrived  in  Florence,  he  lived  joyously  with  his  wife  for  some  time,  making  presents 
tD  her  father  and  sisters,  but  doing  nothing  for  his  own  parents,  who  died  in 
poverty  and  misery.  When  the  period  specified  by  the  king  had  come  ...  he 
found  himself  at  the  end  not  only  of  his  own  money  but  ...  of  that  of  the  king 
.  .  .  remained  in  Florence,  therefore,  procuring  a  livelihood  ...  as  he  best 
might."  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  138.  The  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb.  This  half-delirious  pleading  of  the 
dying  prelate  for  a  tomb  which  shall  gratify  his  luxurious  artistic  tastes  and  per- 
sonal rivalries,  in  presenting  dramatically  the  special  scene  of  the  worldly  old 
bishop's  petulant  struggle  against  his  failing  power,  and  his  collapse,  finally,  beneath 
the  will  of  his  so-called  nephews,  also  sets  forth  to  the  life  a  characteristic  gross 
form  of  the  Renaissance  spirit  encumbered  with  Pagan  survivals,  fleshly  appetites, 
and  selfish  monopolizings  which  hampered  its  development.  — "  It  is  nearly  all 
that  I  said  of  the  Central  Renaissance,  —  its  worldliness,  inconsistency,  pride, 
hypocrisy,  ignorance  of  itself,  love  of  art,  of  luxury,  and  of  good  Latin  —  in  thirty 
pages  of  the  '  Stones  of  Venice,1  put  into  as  many  lines,  Browning's  being  also  the 
antecedent  work."  (Ruskin.)  The  church  of  St.  Praxed  was  rich  in  mosaics,  its 
chapel  St.  Zeno  being  called  Orto  del  Paradiso,  or  the  Garden  of  Paradise,  and  so, 
although  the  bishop  and  his  tomb  there  are  entirely  imaginations  of  Browning,  it  sup- 
plies an  appropriate  setting  for  the  poetic  scene.  —  31.  Onion  stone.  For  the  Italian 
cipollino,  a  kind  of  greenish-white  marble  splitting  into  coats  like  an  onion,  cipolla, 
hence  so  called.  — 41.  Olive-frail,  a  basket  made  of  rushes,  used  for  packing 
olives.  — 42.  Lapis  lazuli,  a  bright  blue  stone.  — 48.  God  the  father's  globe.  In 
the  group  of  the  Trinity  adorning  the  altar  of  St.  Ignatius  at  the  church  of  II  Gcsu 
in  Rome.— 58.  Some  tripod,  thyrsus.  The  first  an  emblem  of  the  Delphic  oracle, 
the  second,  of  Bacchic  orgy.  —  77.  Tally's.  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero.  — 79.  Ulpian. 
A  Roman  jurist  (170-228  A.D.).  —  99.  Elucescebat.  Wrongly  formed  from  the  verb 
eluceo,  eluxi,  elucere,  to  be  illustrious.  —  102.  Else  I  give  the  Pope  my  villas.  Per- 
haps a  threat  founded  on  the  custom  of  Julius  II.  and  other  popes,  according  to 
Burckhardt,  of  enlarging  their  power  "  by  making  themselves  heirs  of  the  cardinals 
and  clergy  '.  .  .  Hence  the  splendor  of  the  tombs  of  the  prelates  ...  a  part  ol 
the  plunder  being  in  this  way  saved  from  the  hands  of  the  Pope."  —  108.  A  Visor 
and  a  Term.  A  mask,  and  a  bust  springing  from  a  square  pillar,  representing  the 


474  NOTES. 

Roman  god  Term  who  presided  over  boundaries.  {Hood's  Magazine,  March, 
1845,  as  '  The  Tomb  at  St.  Praxed's,'  so  also  in  '  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  — 
Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics.'  Classed  under  '  Men  and  Women,'  and  entitled 
as  at  present,  in  '  Poetical  Works,'  1863. 

P.  141.  A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's.  Here  is  shown  the  power  of  musk  to  call  up 
a  vision  of  the  times  which  gave  it  birth.  It  has  lost  all  possibility  of  direct  per- 
sonal appeal,  because  it  is  not  the  outcome  of  an  age  marked  by  deep  and 
universal  feeling,  and  its  very  coldness  makes  more  vivid  the  picture  of  soulless 
frivolity  of  the  Venice  of  the  composer's  day.  To  his  contemporaries  it  spoke  only 
of  death,  and  so  to  the  poet  it  not  only  reflects  its  own  age,  but  is  in  its  deadness 
a  lasting  monument  of  the  "dust  and  ashes  "  into  which  the  shallow  life  of  Venice 
vanished.  —  I.  Galuppi  Baldassare  (1706-1785).  An  Italian  musician,  famous  in 
his  day,  an  industrious  composer  of  whose  seventy  operas  none  have  survived.  He 
lived  and  worked  in  London  from  1741  to  1744 ;  also  in  Russia  at  the  court  of  the 
Empress  Catherine  II.  till  1768,  when  he  left  Russia  and  became  organist  of  St. 
Mark's,  Venice.  When  he  died  he  left  fifty  thousand  lire  to  the  poor  of  that  city. 

—  6.  St.  Mark's.     The  great  cathedral  of  Venice  named  for  St.  Mark,  because  it  is 
said  that  the  body  of  that  evangelist  was  brought  to  Venice  and  enshrined  there. 

Where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea  with  rings.  "  The  ceremony  of  wedding  the 
Adriatic  was  instituted  in  1174  by  Pope  Alexander  III.,  who  gave  the  Doge  a  gold 
ring  from  his  own  finger  in  token  of  the  victory  achieved  by  the  Venetian  fleet  at 
Istria  over  Frederick  Barbarossa,  in  defense  of  the  Pope's  quarrel.  When  his 
Holiness  gave  the  ring,  he  desired  the  Doge  to  throw  a  similar  Ring  into  the  sea 
annually,  in  commemoration  of  the  event"  (Brewer).  —  8.  Shylock's  bridge.  Prob- 
ably the  Rialto  bridge,  by  which  they  show  Shylock's  house.  —  18.  Toccatas,  The 
name  toccata  is  derived  from  the  Italian  toccari,  to  touch.  It  is  a  piece  in  which 
a  certain  passage  or  figure  is  repeated  over  and  over  again  either  in  the  strict  or 
the  free  style.  Clavichord,  a  keyed  and  stringed  instrument,  one  of  the  forerunners 
of  the  modern  piano.  The  technical  musical  allusions  in  the  poem  are  all  to  be 
found  in  the  7th,  8th,  and  gth  stanzas.  The  lesser  thirds  (10)  are  minor  thirds 
(intervals  containing  three  semitones),  and  are  of  common  occurrence,  but  the 
diminished  sixth  (10)  is  an  interval  rarely  used.  Ordinarily  a  diminished  sixth 
(seven  semitones),  exactly  the  same  interval  as  a  perfect  fifth,  instead  of  giving  a 
plaintive,  mournful,  or  minor  impression,  would  suggest  a  feeling  of  rest  and  satis- 
faction. There  is  one  way,  however,  in  which  it  can  be  used,  —  as  a  suspension, 
in  which  the  root  of  the  chord  on  the  lowered  super-tonic  of  the  scale  is  suspended 
from  above  into  the  chord  with  added  seventh  on  the  super-tonic,  making  a 
diminished  sixth  between  the  root  of  the  first  and  the  third  of  the  second  chord. 
The  effect  of  this  progression  is  most  dismal,  and  possibly  Browning  had  it  in 
mind.  Suspensions  (19)  are  notes  which  are  held  over  from  one  chord  into 
another,  and  must  be  made  according  to  certain  strict  musical  rules.  This  holding 
over  of  a  note  always  produces  a  dissonance,  and  must  be  followed  by  a  concord, 

—  in  other  words,  a  solution.     Sevenths  are  very  important  dissonances  in  music, 
and  a  commiserating  seventh  (20)  is  most  likely  the  variety  called  a  minor  seventh. 
Being  a  somewhat  less  mournful  interval  than  the  lesser  thirds  and  the  diminished 
sixths,  whether  real  or  imaginary,  yet  not  so  final  as  "  those  solutions  "  which  seem 
to  put  an  end  to  all  uncertainty,  and  therefore  to  life,  they  arouse  in  the  listeners  to 
Galuppi's  playing  a  hope  that  life  may  last,  although  in  a  sort  of  dissonantal,  Wag- 
nerian  fashion.     The  "commiserating  sevenths"  are  closely  connected  with  the 
"dominant's  persistence"  (24).    The  dominant  chord  in  music  is  the  chord  written 
on  the  fifth  degree  of  the  scale,  and  it  almost  always  has  a  seventh  added  to  it.  am) 


NOTES.  475 

in  a  large  percentage  of  cases  is  followed  by  the  tonic,  the  chord  on  the  first  degree 
of  the  scale.  Now,  in  fugue  form  a  theme  is  first  presented  in  the  tonic  key.  then 
the  same  theme  is  repeated  in  the  dominant  key,  the  latter  being  called  the  answer; 
after  some  development  of  the  theme  the  fugue  comes  to  what  is  called  an  episode, 
after  which  the  theme  is  presented  first,  in  the  dominant.  "  Hark !  the  dominant's 
persistence  "  alludes  to  this  musical  fact ;  but  according  to  rule  this  dominant  must 
be  answered  in  the  tonic  an  octave  above  the  first  presentation  of  the  theme,  and 
"  So  an  octave  struck  the  answer."  Thus  the  inexorable  solution  comes  in  'after 
the  dominant's  persistence.  Although  life  seemed  possible  with  commiserating 
sevenths,  the  tonic,  a  resistless  fate,  strikes  the  answer  that  all  must  end.  The  use 
of  these  terms  belonging  to  the  fugue  form  indicate  that  this  particular  Toccata 
was  strict  rather  than  free  in  form.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  143.  How  it  Strikes  a  Contemporary  is  a  portrait  of  the  Poet  as  the  unpo- 
etic  gossiping  public  of  his  day  see  him.  It  is  humorously  colored  in  every 
detail  by  the  alien  point  of  view  of  one  who  suspects  without  understanding  either 
the  greatness  of  the  poet's  spiritual  personality  and  mission,  nor  the  nature  of  his 
life,  which  is  withdrawn  from  that  of  the  commonalty  yet  spent  in  clear-sighted 
universal  sympathies  and  kindly  mediation  between  Humanity  and  its  God. 
('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  146.  Protus  sets  in  contrast  the  representations  by  artist  and  annalist  of  the 
two  busts  and  the  two  lives  of  Protus,  the  baby  emperor  of  Byzantium,  born  in 
the  purple,  gently  nurtured  and  cherished,  yet  fated  to  obscurity,  and  of  John,  the 
blacksmith's  bastard,  predestined  to  usurp  his  throne  and  save  the  empire  with  his 
harder  hand.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  147.  Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha.  After  wrestling  with  the  unmanageable 
difficulties  of  a  mountainous  fugue,  likening  it  to  a  wordy  quarrel  over  a  simple 
proposition  and  seeking  for  the  soul  of  meaning  that  inspired  Master  Hugues  when 
he  wrote  it,  the  organist  finally  decides  to  regard  it  as  a  symbol  of  life  which,  with 
its  play  and  interplay  of  human  action  and  thought,  ends  by  obscuring  God's  truth. 
Though  Hugues  may  have  had  no  discoverable  moral  in  writing  his  fugue,  the 
organist  draws  the  moral  that  truth  shines  ever  above  though  it  is  not  always 
grasped.  —  2.  Hvgues,  an  imaginary  person.  —  4.  Mountainous  fugues.  A  fugue  is 
a  composition  in  parts,  the  construction  of  which  requires  great  skill,  for  it  is 
necessary  to  start  with  a  theme  in  the  first  part  that  can  be  repeated  in  all  the 
other  parts  and  yet  harmonize  with  itself.  First  the  theme  or  subject  is  presented 
in  a  single  part  in  the  tonic  key,  and  is  repeated  in  the  second  part  a  fifth  higher 
while  the  first  part  continues  in  counterpoint  against  it.  Then  the  subject  is 
repeated  again  at  the  octave,  and  then  at  the  fifth  and  so  on.  As  the  fugue  pro- 
gresses, the  themes  are  developed  and  the  intertwisting  of  parts  grows  more  and 
more  complex.  The  laws  which  govern  the  harmonizing  of  the  parts  together  are 
called  laws  of  counterpoint  and  form  one  ot  the  most  difficult  branches  of  the  art  of 
composition  (see  note  on  '  A  Toccata ') .  The  fugue  described  in  this  poem  would 
seem  to  be  one  of  those  mathematical  productions  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteen 
centuries,  when  music  in  the  hands  of  the  learned  musicians  had  become  li 
more  than  an  affair  of  the  head.  Only  with  the  advent  of  John  Sebastian  Bach 
(1685-1750)  did  the  fugue  become  a  thing  of  beauty.  The  fact  that  the  p 
made  Hugues  from  Saxe-Gotha  has  led  to  the  conclusion  that  a  Bach  fugue 
meant,  because  Bach  was  born  in  Saxe-Gotha,  but  the  turning  of  the  organist  t< 
Palestrina  (140)  as  a  relief  from  the  gorgon  counterpoint  of  Hugues,  would  indicate 
that  the  poet  was  thinking  of  the  fugues  that  preceded  Palestrina  rather  than  th 
of  Bach,  which  belong  about  a  hundred  years  later  than  Palestrina  (1524-1594). 


4/6 


NOTES. 


when  German  music  had  come  under  the  influence  of  the  Italian  style,  founded  by 
Palestrina,  who  freed  music  from  the  excesses  of  the  current  contrapuntal  complica- 
tions.—  26.  Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just.  Sacristan's  assistants. — 39.  Claviers. 
The  keyboard  of  the  organ.  —  44.  two  great  breves.  The  longest  note  in  music, 
formerly  square  in  shape.  —  80.  O  Danaides,  O  Sieve!  The  Danaides  were  the 
daughters  of  Danaus,  who  were  condemned  for  their  crimes  to  pour  water  forever 
through  a  sieve.  —  88.  Escobar,  of  Mendoza,  a  Spanish  casuist,  the  general  tend- 
ency of  whose  writings  was  to  find  excuses  for  human  frailties  (Dr.  Berdoe). — 
86.  Est  fuga,  volvitur  rota  =  it  is  a  flight,  the  wheel  rolls  itself  round.  —  92.  Rispost- 
ing.  A  term  in  fencing  equivalent  here  to  making  a  repartee.  — 100.  Ticken,  ticking. 
— 136.  Mea  poena,  at  my  risk  of  punishment.  — 140.  Mode  Palestrina,  in  the 
style  of  Palestrina.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  152.  Abt  Vogler  (after  he  has  been  extemporizing  upon  the  musical  instru- 
ment of  his  invention).  The  musician  rises  into  a  state  of  exaltation  through  the 
wonder  of  his  own  musical  gift,  the  outcome  of  which  seems  to  him  more  entirely 
creative  than  that  of  any  other  art,  because  the  form  is  evolved  from  the  subjective 
consciousness  and  not  imitated  from  nature,  as  it  is,  more  or  less,  in  the  other  arts. 
While  they  are  obedient  to  laws,  the  composer's  inspiration  is  a  revelation  of  the 
divine  will,  and  being  such  is  eternal  in  its  essence.  From  this  he  reasons  that 
all  good  is  of  the  same  nature,  and,  though  only  partial  now,  is  destined  to  persist 
and  form  a  perfect  whole  in  the  future.  Evil  is  simply  the  discord  that  enhances  the 
beauty  of  the  coming  concord,  and  is  destined  to  be  resolved  in  it,  is,  indeed,  the 
evidence  in  its  aspect  of  failure  that  perfection  is  assured  in  the  future.  —  Abt 
Vogler.  George  Joseph  Vogler,  born  Wiirzburg,  Bavaria,  June  15, 1749 ;  educated 
for  the  church,  but  his  musical  talent,  which  showed  itself  at  an  early  age,  was  also 
developed;  ordained  priest  in  Rome,  1773,  and  opened  a  school  of  music  in 
Mannheim,  1775.  At  Stockholm,  founded  a  second  school  of  music,  and  became 
famous  for  his  performances  on  an  instrument  which  he  had  invented,  called  the 
Orchestrion,  a  compact  organ,  in  which,  four  keyboards  of  five  octaves  each,  and 
a  pedal  board  of  thirty-six  keys,  with  swell  complete,  were  packed  into  a  cube  of 
nine  feet ;  travelled  all  over  Europe  with  his  organ,  his  performances  being  received 
with  enthusiasm ;  opened  a  third  school  of  music  at  Darmstadt,  where  Weber  and 
Meyerbeer  became  his  pupils.  Here  he  died  May  6,  1814.  His  "  Missa  Pasto- 
ricia "  is  performed  every  Christmas  at  the  Hof  Kapelle,  Vienna.  (See  Grove's 
'  Dictionary  of  Music  and  Musicians.')  —  Solomon  willed.  Jewish  and  Moslem 
legends  gave  Solomon  sovereignty  over  the  demons  and  powers  of  nature  which 
he  owed  to  the  possession  of  a  seal  on  which  the  "  most  great  name  of  God  was 
engraved"  (Lane, 'Arabian  Nights').  —  7.  ineffable  name,  the  unspeakable  name 
of  God.  Mysterious  names  of  the  deity  occur  in  other  religions  besides  the 
Jewish.  —  23.  Rome's  dome.  It  has  been  customary  to  illuminate  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's  on  Easter  Sunday  and  other  important  festivals.  —  35.  Protoplast.  The 
thing  first  modelled  from  which  copies  are  imitated.  —  52.  Out  of  three  sounds  he 
frames  not  a  fourth  sound  but  a  star,  etc.  If  you  were  to  mix  three  colors  together 
the  result  would  be  a  fourth  color  in  which  the  individuality  of  the  first  three 
colors  would  be  sunk,  but  if  you  mix  three  sounds  together  in  a  chord  the  result 
will  not  be  a  fourth  sound,  but  a  wonderful  harmony  of  all  three,  partaking  of 
the  individuality  of  each,  and  this  is  done  by  combining  tones  chosen  from  nature's 
chaos  of  sounds  through  the  creative  power  of  the  artist.  —  91.  common  chord,  con- 
sists of  the  fundamental,  with  a  major  (four  semitones),  or  minor  (three  semi- 
tones) third,  and  a  perfect  fifth  (seven  semitones)  over  it.  —  93.  ninth,  if  major,  con- 
tains an  octave  and  two  semitones ;  if  minor,  an  octave  and  one  semitone.  These 


NOTES. 


477 


last  lines  of  the  poem,  stripped  of  their  symbolic  meaning,  may  be  taken  as  an 
exact  explanation  of  a  simple  harmonic  modulation.  Suppose  Abt  Vogler  when 
he  "  feels  for  the  common  chord  "  to  have  struck  the  chord  of  C  major  in  its  first 
inversion,  i.e.  the  third,  E,  in  the  bass,  the  fifth,  G,  at  the  top ;  now,  "  sliding  by 
semitones,"  that  is,  playing  in  succession  chords  with  the  upper  note  a  semitone 
lower,  he  would  come  to  the  chord  A,  E,  C,  which  is  the  (minor)  tonic  chord  of 
the  scale  of  A,  the  relative  minor  of  C,  and  so  he  would  thus  "  sink  to  the  minor." 
Now  he  blunts  the  fifth  of  this  chord  E,  to  Eb,  which  thus  becomes  a  minor  ninth 
over  the  root  D,  the  whole  chord  being  D,  F|,  A,  C,  Eb,  and,  as  he  explains,  he 
stands  on  alien  ground  because  he  has  modulated  away  from  the  key  of  C,  but, 
instead  of  following  this  dominant  by  its  natural  solution,  its  own  tonic,  which 
would  be  G,  B,  D,  he  treats  it  as  if  it  were  what  is  called  a  supertonic  harmony. 
So,  after  pausing  on  this  chord  to  survey  a  while  the  heights  he  rolled  from  into 
the  deep,  he  suddenly  modulates  back  to  C.  He  has  dared  and  done,  his  resting 
place  is  found  —  the  C  major  of  this  life.  This  is  the  progression :  — 

"  Sliding  by  semitones."  "  alien  ground."  "  C  major  of  this  Life." 

I 


('  Dramatis  Persona",'  1864.) 

P.  155.  Two  in  the  Campagna.  A  sense  of  elusiveness  pervades  this  poem. 
The  perpetual  failure  of  the  mind  to  realize  thought,  of  the  heart  to  realize  the 
ideal  in  an  earthly  passion,  leads  the  yearning  human  soul  towards  an  infinite 
which  transcends  finite  power.  The  Campagna,  "  Rome's  Ghost,"  comprises  an 
area  round  Rome  nearly  co-extensive  with  ancient  Latium.  It  is  populous  with 
ruined  cities  and  crumbling  tombs;  a  malarial  desert  in  summer;  in  May,  the 
time  of  the  poem,  a  rich  unbroken  pasturage.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  157.  "De  Gustibus  —  "  for  tastes  — "De  Gustibus  non  disputandum"- 
there  is  no  accounting.  Illustrative  of  likings  inherent  in  each  person,  perhaps 
persistent  in  each  ghost ;  for  the  tree-lover,  rusticity,  and  a  congenial  train  of  Eng- 
lish sights  and  sounds  and  scenes  of  youthful  love-making,  from  which  the  ghostly 
self  must  stay  in  shadow;  for  the  speaker,  if  he  gets  loose  from  his  grave,  scenes 
rich  in  complex  human  associations.  Italy,  the  old-world  life,  the  sea,  and  the  stir 
of  civic  events.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P  158    The  Guardian  Angel  describes  Guercino's  picture  through  the  fi 
it  awakens  in  the  poet -the  craving  to  take  the  child's  place  in  it  and  be  nurturec 
of  the  angel  in  the  serenity  of  prayer.    The  poet,  however,  would  not  look 
heaven  as  the  child  does,  but  gaze  contentedly  upon  the  gracious  guardian  face 
and  view  '.he  world  again  afterwards,  too,  but  with  new  eyes.    So  he  now  links  will 
his  translation  of  the  picture  into  song  thoughts  of  his  own  angel  (his  i 
friend  Alfred  (Domett),  and  the  artist's  fame.-"  A  Picture  at  Pano.     LA 
Custode  in  the  church  of  St.  Augustine  by  the  Bolognese  artist  G.ovanm  trances 


478 


NOTES. 


Barbieri,  called  Guercino  (1590-1666)."  —  55.  "Wairoa."  A  river  in  New  Zea- 
land,  the  country  Domett  went  to.  See  '  Waring.'  (Written  at  Ancona,  1847. 
'  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  160.  Evelyn  Hope  expresses  a  lover's  faith  in  the  potency  of  love  to  reward 
love,  overcoming  Death  and  Time,  and  making  itself  understood,  at  last,  by  the 
young  girl  who  dies  unconscious  of  the  secret  he  shuts  within  the  keeping  of  her 
cold  hand.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  162.  Memorabilia  renders  homage  to  Shelley  by  signalizing  the  moment 
when  an  unappreciative  person's  remembrance  of  him  was  made  known,  like  a 
moor  blank  of  interest  save  for  the  space  where  the  sign  of  an  eagle's  flight  was 
found  and  prized.  —  "The  eagle  feather,"  says  Professor  Corson,  "causes  an  iso- 
lated flash  of  association  with  the  poet  of  the  atmosphere,  the  winds,  and  the 
clouds,  '  The  meteoric  poet  of  air  and  sea.'  "  (Written  on  the  Campagna,  winter 
of  1853-1854.  '  Men  and  Women,"  1855.) 

P.  162.  Apparent  Failure  saves  the  Morgue  in  a  double  sense ;  for  it  was 
written  to  preserve  the  famous  little  building  from  destruction,  and  it  seeks  to  make 
Ks  gloomy  purpose  less  hopeless,  retrieving  three  poor  wretches  whose  death  and 
doom  seemed  sealed  there  from  the  imputation  of  utter  failure. 

Seven  years  since :  In  the  summer  of  1856  Browning  was  in  Paris. —  The  Bap- 
tism of  your  Prince :  Louis  Napoleon,  only  child  of  Napoleon  III.  and  Empress 
Eugenie,  born  March  16,  1856. —  The  Congress :  The  Paris  Congress  of  the  Euro- 
pean Powers  on  Italy's  unity  and  freedom,  Prince  Gortschakoff  representing 
Russia,  Count  Cavour,  then  prime  minister  of  Piedmont,  speaking  for  Italy, 
Count  Buol,  Austrian  foreign  minister,  1852-1859,  objecting.  —  Petrarch's  Vaucluse  : 
a  fountain  in  Vaucluse,  in  southern  France,  the  source  of  the  Sorgues.  In  the 
village  of  Vaucluse  Petrarch  lived  tor  a  time.  ('  Dramatis  Personas,'  1864.) 

P.  164.  Prospice,  meaning  "  look  forward,"  anticipates  Death  as  the  climax 
and  fruition  of  Life,  —  the  best  and  last  occasion  for  the  assertion  of  the  spirit's 
mastery,  —  the  gateway  to  the  rapture  of  the  Soul's  reunion  with  its  supplementary 
Soul.  (Written  in  the  autumn  following  Mrs.  Browning's  death,  1861.  '  Dramatis 
Personse,'  1864.  Set  to  music  by  C.  V.  Stanford.  London :  Stanley,  Lucas  & 
Webber.) 

P.  165.  Childe  Roland  symbolizes  the  Conquest  of  Despair  by  Fealty  to  the 
Ideal.  Browning  emphatically  disclaimed  any  precise  allegorical  intention  in  this 
poem.  He  acknowledged  only  an  ideal  purport  in  which  the  significance  of  the 
whole,  as  suggesting  a  vision  of  life  and  the  saving  power  of  constancy,  had  its 
due  place.  Certain  picturesque  materials  which  had  made  their  impressions  on 
the  poet's  mind  contributed  towards  the  building  up  of  this  realistic  fantasy :  a 
tower  he  saw  in  the  Carrara  Mountains ;  a  painting  which  caught  his  eye  later  in 
Paris;  the  figure  of  a  horse  in  the  tapestry  in  his  own  drawing-room,  —  welded 
together  with  the  remembrance  of  the  line  cited  from  "  King  Lear,"  iii.  4.  187, 
which  last,  it  should  be  remembered,  has  a  background  of  ballads  and  legend 
cycles  of  which  a  man  like  Browning  was  not  unaware.  For  allegorical  schemes 
of  the  Poem  see  Nettleship's  '  Essays  and  Thoughts,'  and  The  Critic,  Apr.  24, 
1886 ;  for  an  antidote  to  these,  The  Critic,  May  8,  1886 ;  an  orthodox  view,  Poet- 
lore,  Nov.,  1890  :  for  interpretations  touching  on  the  ballad  sources,  London  Brown- 
ing Society  Papers,  Part  iii.,  p.  21,  and  Poet-lore,  Aug.-Sept.,  1892.  (Written  at 
Paris  in  one  day,  Jan.  3,  1852.  '  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  171.  A  Grammarian's  Funeral  is  an  elegy  of  a  typical  pioneer  scholar  of 
the  Renaissance  period,  sung  by  the  leader  of  the  chorus  of  disciples,  and  inter- 
spersed with  parenthetical  directions  to  them,  while  they  all  bear  the  body  of  their 


NOTES. 

master  to  its  appropriate  burial-place  on  the  highest  mountain-peak.  A  humorous 
sense  of  disproportion  in  the  labors  of  devoted  scholarship  to  its  results  heightens 
their  exaltation  of  the  dead  humanist's  indomitable  trust  in  the  supremacy  of  the 
immaterial.  —  86.  Calculus,  the  stone.  — 88.  Tussis,  a  cough.  — 95.  Hydroptic, 
dropsical.— 129.  Hotl,  the  Greek  particle  'On,  conjunction,  that.— 130.  Oun, 
Greek  particle  Oi5v,  then,  now  then.  — 131.  Enclitic  de.  Greek  A*,  concerning 
which  Browning  wrote  to  the  Editor  of  The  News,  London,  Nov.  21,  1874: 

"In  a  clever  article  you  speak  of 'the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  £>«•'—' which 
with  all  deference  to  Mr.  Browning,  in  point  of  fact,  does  not  exist.1  No  not  to 
Mr.  Browning :  but  pray  defer  to  Herr  Buttmann,  whose  fifth  list  of  '  enclitics ' 
ends  'with  the  inseparable  De,'  —  or  to  Curtius,  whose  fifth  list  ends  also  with  De 
(meaning  'towards'  and  as  a  demonstrative  appendage).1  That  this  is  not  to  be 
confounded  with  the  accentuated  'De,  meaning  but,1  was  the  '  Doctrine '  which  the 
Grammarian  bequeathed  to  those  capable  of  receiving  it."  ('  Men  and  Women,"  1855.) 

P.  174.  Cleon  expresses  the  approach  of  Greek  thought  at  the  time  of  Christ 
towards  the  idea  of  immortality  as  made  known  by  Cleon,  a  Greek  poet  writing 
in  reply  to  a  Greek  patron  whose  princely  gifts  and  letter  asking  comment  on  the 
philosophical  significance  of  death  have  just  reached  him.  The  important  con- 
clusions reached  by  Cleon  in  his  answer  are  that  the  composite  mind  is  greater 
than  the  minds  of  the  past,  because  it  is  capable  of  accomplishing  much  in  many 
lines  of  activity,  and  of  sympathizing  with  each  of  those  simple  great  minds  that 
had  reached  the  highest  possible  perfection  "  at  one  point."  It  is,  indeed,  the 
necessary  next  step  in  development,  though  all  classes  of  mind  fit  into  the  perfected 
mosaic  of  life,  no  one  achievement  blotting  out  any  other.  This  soul  and  mind 
development  he  deduces  from  the  physical  development  he  sees  about  him.  But 
since  with  the  growth  of  human  consciousness  and  the  increase  of  knowledge 
comes  greater  capability  to  the  soul  for  joy  while  the  failure  of  physical  powers  shuts 
off  the  possibility  of  realizing  joy,  it  would  have  been  better  had  man  been  left 
with  nothing  higher  than  mere  sense  like  the  brutes.  Dismissing  the  idea  of  im- 
mortality through  one's  works  as  unsatisfactory  to  the  individual,  he  finally  con- 
cludes that  a  long  and  happy  life  is  all  there  is  to  be  hoped  for,  since,  had  the 
future  life  which  he  has  sometimes  dared  to  hope  for  been  possible,  Zeus  would 
long  before  have  revealed  it.  He  dismisses  the  preaching  of  one  Paulus  as  un- 
tenable. 

As  certain  of  your  own  poets  also  have  said  (Acts  xvii.  28) .  Cleon  is  supposed 
to  be  one  of  the  Greek  poets  or  thinkers  to  whom  St.  Paul  alludes  in  this  line. 
(Mrs.  Orr.) 

i.  Sprinkled  isles,  probably  the  Sporades,  so  named  because  they  were  scat- 
tered, and  in  opposition  to  the  Cyclades  which  formed  a  circle  around  Delos. — 51. 
phare,  light-house.  The  French  authority,  Allard,  says  that  though  there  is  no  men- 
tion in  classical  writings  of  any  light-house  in  Greece  proper,  it  is  probable  that  there 
was  one  at  the  port  of  Athens  as  well  as  at  other  points  in  Greece.  There  were 
certainly  several  along  both  shores  of  the  Hellespont,  besides  the  famous  father 
of  all  light-houses,  on  the  island  of  Pharos,  near  Alexandria.  Hence  the  French 
name  for  light-house,  phare.  —  53.  Pascile.  The  portico  at  Athens  painted  with 
battle  pictures  by  Polygnotus  the  Thasian.—  Combined  the  moods.  In  Greek  music 
the  scales  were  called  moods  or  modes,  and  were  subject  to  great  variation  in  the 
arrangement  of  tones  and  semitones.  — 340.  To  one  called  Paulus;  we  have  heard 
his  fame.  Paul  in  his  mission  to  the  Gentiles  touched  at  several  of  the  islands  ol 
the  ^Egean  Sea.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P  182.  Instans  Tyrannus  is  a  despot's  confession  of  one  of  his  own  expe- 
riences which  showed  him  the  inviolability  of  the  weakest  man  who  is  in  the  right 


480 


NOTES. 


and  who  can  call  the  spiritual  force  of  good  to  his  aid  against  the  utmost  violence 
or  cunning.  —  "  Instans  Tyrannus,"  or  the  threatening  tyrant,  suggested  by  Horace, 
third  Ode  in  Book  III. :  — 

"  Justum  et  tenaccm  proposti  virum, 
Non  civium  ardor  prava  jubentium, 
Non  vultus  instantis  tyranni,"  etc. 

[The  just  man  tenacious  of  purpose  is  not  to  be  turned  aside  by  the  heat  of  the 
populace  nor  the  brow  of  the  threatening  tyrant.]  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  184.  An  Epistle  gives  the  observations  and  opinions  of  Karshish,  the  Arab 
physician,  writing  to  Abib  his  master  upon  meeting  with  Lazarus  after  he  has  been 
raised  from  the  dead.  Well  versed  in  Eastern  medical  lore,  he  tries  to  explain  the 
extraordinary  phenomenon  according  to  his  knowledge.  He  attributes  Lazarus' 
version  of  the  miracle  to  mania  induced  by  trance,  and  the  means  used  by  the 
Nazarene  physician  to  awaken  him,  and  strengthens  his  view  by  describing  the 
strange  state  of  mind  in  which  he  finds  Lazarus  —  like  a  child  with  no  appreciation 
of  the  relative  values  of  things.  Through  his  renewal  of  life  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  it  from  the  infinite  point  of  view,  and  lives  now  only  with  the  desire  to 
please  God.  His  sole  active  quality  is  a  great  love  for  all  humanity ;  his  impatience 
manifests  itself  only  at  sin  and  ignorance,  and  is  quickly  curbed.  Karshish,  not 
able  to  realize  this  new  plane  of  vision  in  which  had  been  revealed  to  Lazarus  the 
equal  worth  of  all  things  in  the  divine  plan,  is  incapable  of  understanding  Lazarus, 
but  in  spite  of  his  attempt  to  make  light  of  the  case,  he  is  deeply  impressed  by  the 
character  of  Lazarus,  and  has  besides  a  hardly  acknowledged  desire  to  believe  in 
this  revelation,  told  of  by  Lazarus,  of  God  as  Love.  Professor  Corson  says  of  this 
poem,  "  It  may  be  said  to  polarize  the  idea,  so  often  presented  in  Browning's 
poetry,  that  doubt  is  a  condition  of  the  vitality  of  faith." —  17.  Snake-stone,  a  nanv: 
given  to  any  substance  used  as  a  remedy  for  snake-bites,  for  example,  some  are  of 
chalk,  some  of  animal  charcoal,  and  some  of  vegetable  substances.  —  45.  There 's  a 
spider  here.  Dr.  H.  C.  McCook,  a  specialist  on  spiders,  says  in  regard  to  this : 
"  The  habits  of  the  aranead  here  described  point  very  clearly  to  some  one  of  the 
Wandering  group,  which  stalk  their  prey  in  the  open  field  or  in  divers  lurking 
places,  and  are  distinguished  by  this  habit  from  the  other  great  group,  known  as 
the  Sedentary  spiders,  because  they  sit  or  hang  upon  their  webs  and  capture  their 
prey  by  means  of  silken  snares.  The  next  line  is  not  determinative  of  the  species, 
for  there  is  a  great  number  of  spiders,  any  one  of  which  might  be  described  as 
'  Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back.'  We  have  a  little  Saltigrade  or 
Jumping  spider,  known  as  the  Zebra  spider  (Epiblemum  scenicum),  which  is  found 
in  Europe,  and  I  believe  also  in  Syria.  One  often  sees  this  species  and  its  con- 
geners upon  the  ledges  of  rocks,  the  edges  of  tombstones,  the  walls  of  buildings, 
and  like  situations,  hunting  their  prey,  which  they  secure  by  jumping  upon  them. 
So  common  is  the  Zebra  spider,  that  I  might  think  that  Browning  referred  to  it,  if  I 
were  not  in  doubt  whether  he  would  express  the  stripes  of  white  upon  its  ash-gray 
abdomen  by  the  word  '  mottles.'  However,  there  are  other  spiders  belonging  to 
the  same  tribe  (Saltigrades)  that  really  are  mottled. 

"  There  are  also  spiders,  known  as  the  Lycosids  or  Wolf  spiders  or  Ground 
spiders,  which  are  often  of  an  ash-gray  color,  and  marked  with  little  whitish  spots 
after  the  manner  of  Browning's  Syrian  species.  Perhaps  the  poet  had  one  of  these 
in  mind,  at  least  he  accurately  describes  their  manner  of  seeking  prey.  The  next 
line  is  an  interrupted  one,  '  Take  five  and  drop  them.  .  .  .'  Take  five  what  ?  Five 
of  these  ash-gray  mottled  spiders  ?  Certainly.  But  what  can  be  meant  by  the 


NOTES. 

expression, '  drop  them  '  ?  This  opens  up  to  us  a  strange  chapter  in  human  super- 
stiuon.  It  was  long  a  prevalent  idea  that  the  spider  in  various  forms  possessed 
some  occult  power  of  healing,  and  men  administered  it  internally  or  applied  it  ex- 
ternally as  a  cure  for  many  diseases.  Pliny  gives  a  number  of  such  remedies  A 
certain  spider  applied  in  a  piece  of  cloth,  or  another  one  ('a  white  spider  with  very 
elongated  thin  legs ')  beaten  up  in  oil,  is  said  by  this  ancient  writer  upon  Natural 
History  to  form  an  ointment  for  the  eyes.  Similarly,  '  the  thick  pulp  of  a  spider's 
body,  mixed  with  the  oil  of  roses,  is  used  for  the  ears.'  Sir  Matthew  Lister,  who 
was  indeed  the  father  of  English  araneology,  is  quoted  in  Dr.  James's  Medical 
Dictionary  as  using  the  distilled  water  of  boiled  black  spiders  as  an  excellent  cure 
for  wounds."  (In  Poet-lore,  Nov.,  1889.)— 55.  gum-tragacanth,  yielded  by  the 
leguminous  shrub,  Astragalus  tragacantha.  —  60.  Zoar,  the  only  one  that  was 
spared  of  the  five  cities  of  the  plain  (Gen.  xiv.  2).— 177.  Greek  fire,  used  by  the 
Byzantine  Greeks  in  warfare,  first  against  the  Saracens  at  the  siege  of  Constanti- 
nople in  673  A.D.  Therefore  an  anachronism  in  this  poem.  Liquid  fire  was,  how- 
ever, known  to  the  ancients,  as  Assyrian  bas-reliefs  testify.  Greek  fire  was  made 
possibly  of  naphtha,  saltpetre,  and  sulphur,  and  was  thrown  upon  the  enemy  from 
copper  tubes;  or  pledgets  of  tow  were  dipped  in  it  and  attached  to  arrows. 
—  281.  Blue-flowering  borage  (Borago  officinalis).  The  ancients  deemed  this 
plant  one  of  the  four  "  cordial  flowers,"  for  cheering  the  spirits,  the  others  being  the 
rose,  violet,  and  alkanet.  Pliny  says  it  produces  very  exhilarating  effects.  ('  Men 
and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  191.  Caliban  upon  Setebos  gives  the  ruminations  of  a  typical  undeveloped 
mind  as  to  the  nature  of  God,  which  is  influenced  by  his  observations  of  the 
capriciousness  of  nature,  his  fear  of  its  threatening  aspects,  his  hatred  of  his 
master's  cruelty  to  him,  and  his  own  undeveloped  nature.  Yet  even  at  this  low 
stage  of  development  a  reaching  toward  something  better  is  evidenced  in  Caliban's 
supposition  that  behind  Setebos  is  a  power  which  he  calls  the  Quiet,  indifferent  to 
the  affairs  of  man,  but  so  far  superior  to  Setebos  as  not  to  be  actively  antagonistic 
to  man.  Browning  has  taken  Shakespeare's  Caliban  as  a  fit  subject  out  of  which 
to  evolve  the  sort  of  anthropomorphic  reasoning  he  wished  to  portray.  Shake- 
speare possibly  got  his  hint  for  Caliban  from  an  old  book  of  travels,  '  Purchas  his 
Pilgrimage,'  in  which  a  strange  brute-man  is  described  (see  also  Dr.  Furness* 
Variorum  'Tempest').  —  4.  While  he  kicks.  The  third  person  used  by  Caliban  is 
characteristic  of  an  early  phase  in  language  development  —  24.  Setebos.  In 
Eden's '  History  of  Travayle '  there  is  a  description  of  giants  that  inhabited  Patagonia, 
two  of  whom  were  captured  by  Captain  Magellan,  and  finding  themselves  caught 
"  cryed  upon  theye  greate  deuyll  Setebos  to  helpe  them."  (See  Variorum 
'  Tempest ').  ('  Dramatis  Personse,'  1864.) 

P.  198.  Saul  —  founded  on  the  passage  in  i  Samuel  xvi.  14-23,  where  Saul  is 
described  as  being  troubled  with  an  evil  spirit  which  David  drives  away  by  play- 
ing the  harp  —  puts  into  David's  mouth  the  account  of  his  ministry  to  Saul's  great 
need  by  means  of  his  music  which,  working  upon  the  memory  and  emotions  of 
Saul,  at  last  arouses  him  from  his  lethargy.  First,  he  sings  to  him  the  simpler 
tunes  to  the  Brutes,  then  the  help-tunes  for  great  epochs  in  human  life.  Leading 
up  to  the  tunes  of  human  aspiration,  he  sings  first  of  the  great  joysjof  life,  and  then 
centres  his  song  upon  the  greatness  of  Saul's  life  especially.  Seeing  that  Saul  is 
now  fully  aroused  but  not  comforted,  David  sings  another  song  showing  that  Saul's 
true  greatness  does  not  lie  in  his  mortal  life,  but  in  the  far-reaching  effect  of  his 
great  deeds.  Then,  through  the  intense  and  self-sacrificing  love  with  which  David 
is  inspired  for  Saul,  the  prophetic  revelation  of  God  as  an  incarnation  of  love  in 
21 


482  NOTES. 


Christ  is  borne  in  upon  him.  Yearning  to  give  Saul  greater  comfort,  even  the 
assurance  of  a  future  resurrection  of  life,  the  Truth  comes  to  him.  In  nature  God 
has  been  revealed  to  him  as  the  Almighty ;  in  his  own  love  God  is  revealed  to  him 
as  love,  infinitely  strong  in  his  power  to  love  and  able  to  accomplish  what  David 
only  desires  to  accomplish,  but  infinitely  weak  in  his  power  to  be  loved,  through 
which  weakness  he  shall  become  incarnate  and  be  the  salvation  of  mankind. — 
i.  Abner,  the  son  of  Ner,  captain  of  Saul's  host  (i  Samuel  xxvi.  5). — 36.  "And  1 
first  played  the  tune."  Prof.  Albert  S.  Cook  suggests  that  Browning  obtained 
his  hints  for  these  tunes  from  Longus's  romance  of  '  Daphnis  and  Chloe.'  The 
first  is  found  on  pp.  303-4  (Smith's  Translation,  Bohn  Ed.) ,  "  He  ran  through 
all  variations  of  pastoral  melody,  he  played  the  tune  which  the  oxen  obey,  and 
which  attracts  the  goats,  —  that  in  which  the  sheep  delight,"  etc.;  pp.  332-4,  "... 
standing  under  the  shade  of  a  beech-tree,  he  took  his  pipe  from  his  scrip  and 
breathed  into  it  very  gently.  The  goats  stood  still,  merely  lifting  up  their  heads. 
Next  he  played  the  pasture  tune,  upon  which  they  all  put  down  their  heads  and 
began  to  graze.  Now  he  produced  some  notes  soft  and  sweet  in  tone ;  at  once  his 
herd  lay  down.  After  this  he  piped  in  a  sharp  key,  and  they  ran  off  to  the  wood, 
as  if  a  wolf  were  in  sight."  In  answer  to  the  question  as  to  whether  there  is  any 
historical  foundation  for  David's  songs,  Rabbi  Charles  Fleischer  of  Boston  replied  in 
a  letter  to  the  editors  :  "  I  believe  that  David's  songs  in  Browning's  poem  '  Saul '  are 
the  inspired  melodies  of  our  nineteenth  century  David  rather  than  the  songs  of  Isra- 
el's poetic  shepherd-king.  .  .  .  While,  then,  I  believe  that  these  melodies  in  'Saul' 
were  not  current  among  the  Jews  of  old,  I  know  that  they  would  serve  well  to 
express  beliefs  and  ideals  characteristic  of  the  best  minds  among  the  Jews 
of  to-day."  —  45.  Jerboa,  a  small  jumping  rodent,  called  also  a  jumping  hare. — 
65.  male-sapphires,  superior.  The  ancient  sapphire  was  the  same  as  our  lapis-lazuli. 
—  203.  Hebron,  the  most  southern  of  the  three  cities  of  refuge  west  of  Jordan.  — 
204.  Kidron,  a  brook  in  Jerusalem.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7 —  Dramatic 
Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845,  the  first  nine  stanzas.  '  Men  and  Women,'  1855,  the 
completed  poem.) 

P.  207.  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  gives  expression  to  a  religious  philosophy  which  recog- 
nizes the  perfectness  of  the  divine  plan  in  which  love  plays  an  equal  part  with  power. 
Therefore,  doubts  and  rebuffs  are  welcomed  as  the  divine  means  for  perfecting  the 
soul's  growth  and  shaping  it  for  the  glorification  of  the  divine.  The  very  failure  of 
man  in  the  flesh  showing  his  infinite  possibilities  of  growth  removes  him  forever 
from  the  brute,  perfect  on  its  plane,  and  gives  assurance  both  of  God,  and  of  man's 
tendency  Godwards,  from  which  follows  the  certainty  of  God  and  the  enduring- 
ness  of  the  human  soul.  Old  age  is  joyously  accepted  as  the  vantage  ground  from 
which  life  can  be  viewed  and  the  truth  in  regard  to  its  struggles  discerned. 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  or  Ibn  Ezra,  was  a  mediaeval  Jewish  writer  and  thinker,  born 
in  Toledo  near  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century.  His  real  name  is  said  to  be 
Abraham  ben  Meir  ben  Ezra.  He  was  poor,  but  studied  hard  and  travelled  in 
Africa,  the  Holy  Land,  Persia,  India,  Italy,  France,  and  England,  but  during  all  his 
wanderings  he  kept  busy  writing  and  gained  much  fame  as  a  theologian,  philoso- 
pher, physician,  astronomer,  mathematician,  and  poet.  Dr.  Berdoe  quotes  Mr.  A.  J. 
Campbell  to  the  effect  that  the  distinctive  features  of  the  Rabbi  of  the  poem  and 
the  philosophy  put  into  his  mouth  are  drawn  from  the  writings  of  the  real  Rabbi. 
Dr.  M.  Friedlander  has  written  five  volumes  of  exposition  on  the  writings  of  Ibn 
Ezra,  published  for  the  Society  of  Hebrew  Literature  by  Triibner  and  Co.  (Died 
1167  or  1168.) — 26.  Potter's  wheel,  borrowed  from  Isaiah  Ixiv.  8,  and  Jeremiah 
xviii.  2-6.  ('  Dramatis  Personse,'  1864.) 


NOTES. 

P.  213.  Epilogue.  First  Speaker,  as  David,  gives  symbolically  the  point  of  view 
of  one  who  believes  in  special  revelation  of  religious  truths.  Second  Speaker  as 
Renan,  shows  disillusionment  as  to  special  revelation  along  with  regret  for  the  lost 
ideal  and  hopelessness  in  consequence  of  it.  Third  Speaker,  the  poet,  restores  the 
lost  ideal,  not  through  the  reinstating  of  a  special  revelation  but  through  the 
recognition  of  the  revelation  that  comes  to  every  human  being  in  feeling  and 
knowledge.  —  i.  "  On  the  first  of  the  Feast  of  Feasts"  refers  of  course  to  the  dedication 
of  Solomon's  Temple,  i  Kings  viii.  and  ix. ;  2  Chronicles  v.  and  vi.  —  Renan  born 
at  Treguier,  Cotes-du-Nord,  France,  1823.  Distinguished  for  his  '  Life  of  Christ,1 
from  which  he  banished  all  supernatural  elements.  ('  Dramatis  Personse,'  1864.)' 

P.  217.  A  Wall  expresses  the  speaker's  pleasure  in  looking  at  a  dead  wall 
clothed  with  vines,  and  makes  the  impression  it  presents  of  mysterious  life  pulsating 
over  an  inert  surface  symbolical  of  spiritual  force  stirring  behind  matter,  and  of  the 
special  kindred  soul  whose  indwelling  spirit  has  power  to  transfuse  the  external 
shows  of  life  that  bar  him  away  from  her,  rallying  his  faith  in  "  the  subtle  thing 
that's  spirit "  and  calling  him  to  a  reunion  despite  material  obstacles  and  worldly 
interventions.  —  This  lyric  seems  to  have  been  chosen  by  Browning  to  stand  as  the 
Prologue  of  his  Second  Series  of  Selections  (1880),  as  '  My  Star'  was  of  the  First 
Series,  because  it  refers  to  Mrs.  Browning,  and  would  serve  as  a  sort  of  dedicatory 
verse.  (Prologue  to  '  Pacchiarotto,'  1876,  first  titled  'A  Wall '  in  present  Selections, 
1880.) 

P.  218.  Apparitions  symbolizes  in  three  different  poetical  figures  the  power  of 
love  to  change  the  whole  aspect  of  life,  with  the  added  thought  in  the  last  stanza 
that  love  is  a  revelation  of  the  divine.  (Proem  to  '  Two  Poets  of  Croisic,'  with  '  La 
Saisiaz,'  1878.  Set  to  music  by  F.  Tetaldi ;  pub.  by  London  Browning  Society ;  by 
E.  C.  Gregory,  London:  Novello,  Ewer  and  Co.;  by  Helen  A.  Clarke,  in  Poet-lore, 
May,  1890,  Boston:  Poet-lore  Co.) 

P.  218  and  219.  '  Natural  Magic '  and  Magical  Nature  are  supplementary 
lyrics,  both  emblematical  of  the  power  of  spirit  over  fact,  but,  the  first,  expressive 
more  particularly  of  the  inexplicable  power  of  one  personality  over  another's  life 
and  circumstances,  and  the  second  of  the  equally  wonderful  power  of  a  soul  over 
the  conditions  of  its  own  existence.  ('Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  219.  Garden  Fancies.  I.  '  The  Flower's  Name '  gives  the  reveries  of  a 
would-be  lover  as  he  walks  through  a  garden  he  had  lately  visited,  recalling  every 
little  act  of  the  girl  who  accompanied  him  and  feeling  the  subtle  influence  of  her 
presence  in  the  flower  she  pointed  out  to  him,  especially  the  one  with  the  soft 
meandering  Spanish  name  which  he  would  have  stay  forever  as  it  was  when  she 
touched  it.  II.  'Sibrandus  Schafnaburgensis '  shows  how  different  the  mood 
induced  by  a  pedantic  old  book  from  that  by  a  charming  girl.  She  glorifies  nature, 
but  nature's  only  use  in  this  poem  is  to  bury  out  of  sight  the  tiresome  old  pedant 
and  torment  him  with  its  romping  and  frisking,  while  the  hero  of  the  occasion  for- 
gets both  in  ministering  to  his  material  welfare,  and  to  his  frivolous  mental  mood 
with  Rabelais.  In  a  sober  moment  he  repents  of  his  unkindness  to  the  pedant,  and 
gives  him  at  least  space  on  his  book-shelf  if  not  his  admiration.  10.  Arbute, 
probably  arbutus,  an  ornamental  shrub  of  the  Heath  family,  often  planted  in  gardens. 
—  Laurustine,  Viburnum  Tinus,  an  evergreen  shrub  of  the  Honeysuckle  family.  - 
19.  Pont-levis,  drawbridge.  — 38.  De  profundis  accentlbus  latis  cantate,  sing  from 
the  depths  with  joyful  tones.  (Hoofs  Magazine,  July,  1844,  '  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates, No.  7,"  1845.) 

P  223.    In  Three  Days  is  a  lover's  song  of  expectant  joy  in  reunion ;  hi 
ness  that  makes  the  three  days  seem  long  contends  with  his  anticipation  of  happi- 


484 


NOTES. 


ness  that  makes  the  three  days  seem  short ;  and  fear  of  change  and  chance  is  but  a 
trifle  that  his  perfect  faith  over-rides.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  224.  The  Lost  Mistress  is  the  farewell  of  a  lover  who  seeks,  with  a  good 
grace,  to  suppress  his  love  to  the  level  of  that  mere  friendship  whose  privileges  he 
must  resign,  but  whose  tenderness  he  transcends.  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates, 
No.  7  —  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,'  1845.) 

P.  225.  One  way  of  Love  is  a  "  way "  so  pure  and  unselfish  that  though  the 
lover's  passion  is  unrequited  he  can  still  see  others  win  heaven  without  feeling 
envy.  ('  Men  and  Women,"  1855.) 

P.  225.  Rudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli.  Rudel  symbolizes  his  love  as  the 
aspiration  of  the  sunflower  that  longs  only  to  become  like  the  sun,  so  losing  a 
flower's  true  grace,  while  the  sun  does  not  even  perceive  the  flower.  He  imagines 
himself  as  a  pilgrim  revealing  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli  by  means  of  this  symbol  the 
entire  sinking  of  self  in  his  love  for  her.  Even  men's  praise  of  his  songs  are  no 
more  to  him  than  the  bees  which  bask  on  a  sunflower  are  to  it. 

Rudel  was  a  Proven?al  troubadour,  and  lived  in  the  twelfth  century.  The  Cru- 
saders, returning  from  the  East,  spread  abroad  wonderful  reports  of  the  beauty, 
learning,  and  wit  of  the  Countess  of  Tripoli,  a  small  duchy  on  the  Mediterranean, 
north  of  Palestine.  Rudel,  although  never  having  seen  her,  fell  in  love  with  her 
and  composed  songs  in  honor  of  her  beauty,  and  finally  set  out  to  the  East  in  pil- 
grim's garb.  On  his  way  he  was  taken  ill,  but  lived  to  reach  the  port  of  Tripoli. 
The  countess,  being  told  of  his  arrival,  went  on  board  the  vessel.  When  Rudel 
heard  she  was  coming  he  revived,  said  she  had  restored  him  to  life  by  her  coming, 
and  that  he  was  willing  to  die,  having  seen  her.  He  died  in  her  arms ;  she  gave 
him  a  rich  and  honorable  burial  in  a  sepulchre  of  porphyry  on  which  were  en- 
graved verses  in  Arabic.  ('Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,' 
1842;  appeared  as  I.  under  the  general  title  of  '  Queen  Worship,'  'Cristina'  being 
II.) 

P.  226.  Numpholeptos  is  an  expression  of  womanhood  as  ideally  conceived 
and  actually  restricted  by  man.  Under  the  image  of  a  man  caught  by  a  nymph 
(Numpho-leptos)  and  ensnared  to  undertake  a  series  of  quests  colored  by  the  un- 
natural broken  light  emanating  from  this  unreal  feminity,  in  the  vain  hope  of  gain- 
ing a  genuine  human  love  from  her  in  return,  an  implication  is  given  of  what  ideal 
womanhood  is  for  man  and  what  actual  womanhood  could  be.  The  symbol  is, 
therefore,  not  explicable  completely  by  any  one  or  all  ideals  of  womanhood  as  re- 
lated to  man.  The  type  presented  is  complex,  unreal,  and  yet  historical,  implying 
associations  with  the  Pagan  notions  of  the  nymphs  from  whom  the  poem  derives 
its  name  —  the  primitive  Zeus-begotten  daughters  of  nature;  with  the  passive 
woman  of  the  Renaissance  or  of  Chivalry,  who  called  on  men  for  ceaseless  love  and 
service ;  with  the  exalted  woman-visions,  more  or  less  founded  on  actual  Beatrices 
and  Lauras  by  the  Dantes  and  Petrarchs ;  with  the  divination  of  what  woman  has 
it  actually  in  herself  to  be  when  she  possesses  knowledge  and  purity  as  a  natural 
"consequence  of  free  individual  life,  obtaining  them  not  by  inheritance  and  imagi- 
nation but  by  achievement.  Replying  to  an  inquiry  as  to  the  purport  of  '  Numpho- 
feptos '  Browning  wrote  :  — 

"  An  allegory  of  an  impossible  ideal  object  of  love,  accepted  conventionally  as 
Such  by  a  man,  who,  all  the  while,  cannot  quite  blind  himself  to  the  demonstrable 
fact  that  the  possessor  of  knowledge  and  purity  obtained  without  the  natural  con- 
sequences of  obtaining  them  by  achievement  —  not  inheritance,  —  such  a  being  is 
imaginary,  not  real,  a  nymph  and  no  woman  :  and  only  such  an  one  would  be  igno- 
rant of  and  surprised  at  the  results  of  a  lover's  endeavour  to  emulate  the  qualities 


NOTES. 


485 


which  the  beloved  is  entitled  to  consider  as  pre-existent  to  earthly  experience  and 
independent  of  its  inevitable  results. 

"  I  had  no  particular  woman  in  my  mind ;  certainly  never  intended  to  personify 
wisdom,  philosophy,  or  any  other  abstraction ;  and  the  orb,  raying  colour  out  of 
whiteness,  was  altogether  a  fancy  of  my  own.  The  '  seven-spirits '  are  in  the  Apoc- 
alypse, also  in  Coleridge  and  Byron :  a  common  image."  ('  Pacchiarotto,'  1876.) 

P.  230.  Appearances  symbolizes  by  means  of  two  illustrative  incidents  how 
unimportant  externals  are  in  comparison  with  the  life  beneath  them.  ('  Pacchia- 
rotto, with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  230.  The  worst  of  it  is  addressed  mentally  by  a  husband  to  a  wife  who 
has  been  false  to  him  after  having  given  him  a  year's  perfect  happiness.  Love  of 
her  has  been  so  much  to  him  that  staunch  apology  for  her  rights  of  choice,  and 
loyal  resentment  of  the  imputation  of  evil  she  will  suffer  in  the  world  through  hav- 
ing broken  his  bonds,  contend  with  his  own  pain,  and  his  secret  fear  that  her 
womanhood  must  sustain  some  real  taint,  without  in  the  least  marring  the  quality 
of  his  own  fidelity  or  altering  his  obedient  renunciation  of  any  right  over  her. 
('  Dramatis  Personas,'  1864.) 

P.  234.  Too  Late  presents  a  series  of  moods  of  a  man  who  first  realizes  the  full 
force  of  his  love  when  the  woman  he  loved  is  dead.  He  blames  himself  now  for 
not  having  been  more  determined  in  his  suit.  He  waited  to  tell  his  love  until  she 
should  sufficiently  encourage  him  with  a  glance ;  when  she  marries  some  one  else, 
he  blames  no  one,  but  calmly  thinks  that  Time  will  give  her  to  him.  Either  his  love 
will  reach  out  toward  her  round  the  obstacle  of  her  husband,  or  else  a  miracle  will 
sweep  the  obstruction  entirely  away.  Now  Edith  is  dead  there  is  no  hope.  It 
isn't  worth  while  to  vent  his  rage  on  the  past,  nor  upon  the  husband  whom  he 
represents  as  a  person  very  inferior  to  himself,  a  poet,  who  rhymed  rubbish  that 
nobody  read  —  and  incapable  of  loving  Edith.  All  that  is  left  to  him  is  to  get  what 
satisfaction  he  can  by  living  with  his  back  to  the  world,  kneeling  in  the  imagined 
•presence  of  Edith,  and  perfecting  in  spirit  the  courtship  once  planned. — 138.  Sum- 
mits Jus,  utmost  justice.  ('  Dramatis  Personae,'  1864.) 

P.  237.  Bifurcation  presents  a  case  of  conflict  between  love  and  duty,  in  the 
guise  of  two  epitaphs  imagined  by  the  lover,  which  sum  up  two  life-histories :  the 
one  of  the  woman  who  chooses  for  herself  the  smoother  and  safer  path  of  duty,  con- 
tenting her  heart  with  bidding  her  lover  to  be  constant,  and  to  await  with  her  the 
pleasure  of  a  future  life  where  they  need  not  make  a  choice  between  good  things, 
but  have  both  easily ;  the  other  of  the  man,  left  perforce  by  her  decision  upon  the 
rougher  road,  to  proceed  against  ceaseless  pains  and  hindrances,  content  only  in  a 
faith  that  does  not  dissever  love  from  duty  nor  count  the  cost  of  enduring  actual 
imperfection  for  its  sake ;  both  lives,  thus  set  forth,  calling  for  a  nice  decision  as  to 
which  person  was  sinner,  which  was  saint.  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,' 
1876.) 

P.  238.   A  Likeness,  in  giving  two  instances  of  the  unsympathetic  regard  which 
the  uninitiated  will  bestow  upon  a  likeness  deeply  cherished  by  its  owner,  and  a 
third  instance  in  which  a  friend  being  too  appreciative,  the  possessor  of  the  likeness 
feels  it  no  longer  peculiarly  his  own,  and  half  pleased,  half  vexed,  would  as  soon  toss 
it  to  his  friend  as  only  a  duplicate  after  all,  illustrates :   first,  how  the  person  to 
whose  sympathies  an  object  has  especially  appealed,  is  secretly  grieved  by  others- 
lack  of  appreciation ;  and  second,  the  irritation  aroused  through  the  loss  of  the 
sense  of  peculiar  possession  occasioned  by  the  full  appreciation  of  anoth 
19.    Tipton  Slasher.    An  English  boxer.  — 20.  Rarey.    The  famous  horse  tame 
whose  method  of  subduing  the  most  vicious  brutes  consisted  in  firmness  and  gen- 


486 


NOTES. 


lleness.  —  22.  Sayers.  The  English  prize-fighting  champion.  —  55.  Festina  lentl, 
hasten  slowly.  —  61.  Volpato.  An  eminent  designer  and  engraver,  born  at  Bassano 
in  1738 ;  died  1803.  ('  Dramatis  Personae/  1864.) 

P.  240.  May  and  Death.  A  natural  outbreak  of  irritation  at  the  return  of  May, 
with  its  renewed  joys  and  poignant  memories  of  old  associations  cut  short  by  Death, 
the  first  pang  of  it,  starting  the  wish  that  all  Spring's  joys  had  died  with  the  friend, 
softening,  for  the  sake  of  other  such  pairs  of  friends,  to  the  longing  to  reserve  as 
sacred  to  the  dead  merely  one  little  plant  whose  red-splashed  leaf  seems  to  betoken 
his  own  bleeding  sorrow.  —  The  "  poem  was  a  personal  utterance,"  Mrs.  Orr  says, 
incited  by  the  death  of  a  dearly  loved  relative.  —  13.  One  plant.  The  Spotted  Per- 
sicaria  or  Polygonum  Persicaria,  whose  leaves  have  purple  stains  varying  in  size 
and  brightness  according  to  the  nature  of  the  soil  where  it  grows.  ('  The  Keep- 
sake,' 1857,  included  in  '  Dramatis  Personae,'  1864.) 

P.  241.  A  Forgiveness  presents  a  conflict  between  two  proud  souls,  who  love 
each  other,  but  who  do  not  fully  understand  each  other's  natures,  resulting  in  crime 
and  repentance  on  the  woman's  part,  and  in  self-justified  crime  on  the  man's  part. 
The  incidents  of  the  story  come  out  in  the  husband's  confession  to  a  priest.  The 
wife,  jealous  of  her  husband's  attention  to  state  affairs,  thinks  to  teach  him  her 
worth  in  arousing  his  jealousy  by  an  intrigue  with  another  man,  whom  she  avows 
to  her  husband  she  loves.  Scorn  at  her  utter  contemptibleness  is  the  result,  and 
though  all  sympathy  is  over  between  them,  everything  appears  to  go  on  smoothly 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  At  the  end  of  three  years  the  wife  feels  that  unless  she 
confesses  to  her  husband  the  truth,  that  she  had  loved  him  and  him  alone,  she  will 
die,  and  gain  the  peace  she  does  not  deserve.  She  chooses,  therefore,  to  live,  and 
confessing  to  him,  asks  only  that  she  may  be  allowed  to  go  and  burn  her  life  out  to 
ashes.  In  learning  the  truth,  the  husband's  scorn  is  raised  to  hate.  He  requires 
her  to  write  down  her  confession.  She  evidently  fearing  that  this  change  in  his 
attitude  means  that  he  now  thinks  her,  according  to  his  code,  worthy  of  death, 
hopes  that  her  blood  for  ink  will  suffice,  to  which  he  acquiesces  equivocally,  while 
handing  her  the  poisoned  weapon  that  kills  her.  In  her  death  he  tells  her,  hate  is 
quenched  in  vengeance,  and  that  dead  he  pardons  her.  The  final  stanza  unex- 
pectedly increases  the  dramatic  intensity  of  the  scene  by  revealing  the  fact  that  the 
confession  has  been  made  to  the  man  with  whom  his  wife  had  intrigued,  and  who 
can  no  longer  escape  the  husband's  vengeance.  Mary  Wilson  says  of  this  poem, 
"  Nothing  could  more  effectively  express  the  stoic  Spaniard,  his  code  and  ideal, 
than  the  measured  punctiliousness,  the  gradation  from  contempt  to  hatred,  the  self- 
command,  the  unhasting,  unresting  vindictiveness,  and  the  exquisite  torture 
devised  for  his  enemy."  —  99.  Which  changed  for  me  a  barber's  basin  straight 
into  Mambrino's  helm.  Mambrino  was  a  Moorish  king,  in  the  romantic  poems  of 
Bojardo  and  Ariosto,  who  was  the  possessor  of  an  enchanted  golden  helmet,  which 
rendered  the  wearer  invulnerable.  The  allusion  is  to  an  episode  in  the  '  Advent- 
ures of  Don  Quixote,'  when  the  crazy  knight  thought  he  had  found  the  golden 
helmet  in  what  proved  to  be  nothing  but  a  copper  basin,  highly  polished,  which  a 
barber  on  his  way  to  bleed  a  patient  had  put  on  his  head  to  protect  a  new  hat  dur- 
ing a  shower.  Don  Quixote  exclaims  to  Sancho,  "  Seest  thou  not  yon  knight  com- 
ing toward  us  on  a  dapple-grey  steed  with  a  helmet  of  gold  on  his  head  ?  .  .  .  If 
I  mistake  not  there  cometh  one  toward  us  who  carries  on  his  head  Mambrino's 
helmet,  concerning  which  thou  mayest  remember  I  swore  the  oath  "  (chap.  xxi.). — 
201.  arquebus  or  harquebus,  the  earliest  form  of  hand  gun,  resembling  the  modern 
musket,  first  used  about  1476.  —  249.  Arms  of  Eastern  workmanship.  Browning 
had  in  his  possession  just  such  a  collection  of  arms.  ('  Pacchiarotto,'  1876.) 


NOTES.  487 

P.  251.  Cenciaja  is  a  note  throwing  light  on  the  passage  in  Shelley's  tragedy  ol 
'The  Cenci,'  act  v.  sc.  4,  wherein  Cardinal  Camillo  reports  the  Pope's  decision 
that  Beatrice  and  her  brother  must  die.  Browning's  poetic  commentary  on  this 
supplies  an  account  of  the  historic  occurrences  connected  with  Paolo  Santa  Croce's 
matricide  which  determined  the  Pope's  decision  in  the  then  pending  Cenci  case, 
and  incidentally  reveals  the  secret  motives  which  instigated  Cardinal  Aldobran- 
dini  and  Judge  Taverna  to  secure  the  condemnation  of  Paolo's  innocent  brother 
Onofrio ;  the  whole  serving  in  Browning's  hands  to  reinforce  Shelley's  picture  of 
the  time  and  to  illustrate  with  grim  irony  how  unerring  "  God's  justice  "  has  been 
when  left  in  men's  hands.  Of  the  historic  basis  of  the  poem,  Browning  writes:  "  I 
got  the  facts  from  a  contemporaneous  account  I  found  in  a  MS.  volume  containing 
the  '  Relations '  of  the  Cenci  affair  —  with  other  memorials  of  Italian  crime  —  lent 
me  by  Sir  J.  Simeon;  who  published  the  Cenci  Narrative, with  notes,  in  the  series 
of  the  Philobiblon  Society.  It  was  a  better  copy  of  the  '  Relation '  than  that  used 
by  Shelley,  differing  at  least  in  a  few  particulars.  I  believe  I  have  seen  somewhere 
that  the  translation  was  made  by  Mrs.  Shelley  —  the  note  appended  to  an  omitted 
passage  seems  a  womanly  performance."  Of  the  Title  and  Motto  he  writes :  " '  Aia ' 
is  generally  an  accumulative  yet  depreciative  termination:  'Cenciaja' — a  bundle 
of  rags  —  a  trifle.  The  proverb  means  '  every  poor  creature  will  be  pressing  into 
the  company  of  his  betters, '  and  I  used  it  to  deprecate  the  notion  that  I  intended 
anything  of  the  kind."  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  257.  Porphyria's  Lover  relates  how,  by  strangling  Porphyria  with  her  own 
yellow  hair,  the  lover  seized  and  preserved  the  moment  of  perfect  love  when,  pure 
and  good,  Porphyria  left  the  world  she  could  not  forego  for  his  sake,  and  came  to 
him,  for  once  conquered  by  her  love.  A  latent  misgiving  as  to  his  action  is  inti- 
mated in  the  closing  line  of  the  poem. 

Remarking  upon  the  fact  that  Browning  removed  the  original  title, '  Madhouse 
Cells,'  which  headed  this  poem,  and  '  Johannes  Agricola  in  Meditation,'  Mrs.  Orr 
says  :  "  Such  a  crime  might  be  committed  in  a  momentary  aberration,  or  even  intense 
excitement  of  feeling.  It  is  characterized  here  by  a  matter-of-fact  simplicity,  which 
is  its  sign  of  Badness.  The  distinction,  however,  is  subtle ;  and  we  can  easily 
guess  why  this  and  its  companion  poem  did  not  retain  their  title.  A  madness 
which  is  fit  for  dramatic  treatment  is  not  sufficiently  removed  from  sanity.  (Fox's 
Monthly  Repository,  over  the  signature  "Z."  1836.  Reprinted  as  II. 'Madhouse 
Cells.'  '  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3— Dramatic  Lyrics,  1842.') 

P.  259.  Filippo  Baldinucci  is  an  old  man's  racy  account  of  an  incident  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  recalled  to  mind  by  his  relish  of  his  nephew's  disorderliness 
in  pelting  Jews.    The  boy's  prejudices,  appearing  as  a  faint  reflex  of  the  Christian 
trick  his  uncle  narrates,  are  thus  dramatically  shown  to  be  a  heritage  from  an  elder 
generation  and  already  growing  out  of  date.    The  religious  tolerance  embodied  in 
current  laws,  on  the  other  hand,  falling  in  line  with  the  larger  view  of  all  religions 
evinced  in  the  sequel  of  the  old  man's  story,  by  the  burly  young  Jew.  serves  to 
vindicate  and  avenge  the  persecuted  and  to  set  forth  in  a  humorous,  satirical  light 
the  childishness  of  the  piety  of  the  persecutors.    The  first  part  of  the  old  man  s 
story  is  giten,  as  an  actual  occurrence  in  the  life  of  the  painter  Lodovicc 
(1624-1696)   in  a  passage   in  Filippo  Baldinucci's  '  Notices  of  Painters    {"***' 
dei  Professori  del  Disegno  da  Cimabue  in  qua',  162^-1670,  published  x68i-i; 
The  Rabbi  who  remonstrated  is  there  told:  "'Your  bargain  has  been  fulfill 
the  letter  and  what  else  do  you  want  ?     It  is  my  opinion  that  you  are  very  pi 
sumptuous,  that  with  your  sordid  money  you  wished  to  buy  my  patrons  1 
The  story  then  closes,  thus :  "  Then  the  Rabbis  dispersed  discontentedly,  but  tacitly 


488  NOTES. 

acknowledging  they  were  wrong.  They  said  no  more  about  it  and  no  longer  tried 
with  their  ill-gotten  riches  to  control  the  piety  of  good  Christians."  The  sequel,  as 
told  in  stanzas  xxxvii  to  Ivi,  is  of  Browning's  own  devising,  and  of  course  is  not  to 
be  found  in  Baldinucci's  book,  so  the  poet  cleverly  accounts  for  this  in  stanza  xxxvi 
by  making  Filippo  declare,  "  plague  o'  me  if  I  record  it  in  my  book !  "  The  initial 
situation  of  the  boy  and  his  uncle  is,  also,  Browning's  own  dramatic  setting  of  the 
occurrence. —  176.  Esaias:  "  stiff-necked  Jews"  Isaiah  xlviii.  4  :  "  Thy  neck  is  an 
iron  sinew."  —  397.  Leda,  Ganymede,  Antiope,  refers  to  three  of  the  many  loves  of 
Jupiter  for  whom  he  abandoned  his  godlike  aspect  and  assumed  for  the  sake  of 
Leda,  the  wife  of  Tyndarus,  King  of  Sparta,  the  form  of  a  swan ;  for  Ganymede, 
the  fair  Trojan  boy,  the  form  of  an  eagle ;  for  Antiope,  the  daughter  of  Asopus,  the 
river-god,  the  form  of  a  satyr.  —  402.  Titian.  The  great  Venetian  painter,  1477- 
1576.  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  272.  Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister  gives  the  ill-natured  attitude  of  mind 
of  a  monk,  jealous  of  a  brother  monk,  whom  he  hates  because  of  his  genial  nature 
and  goodness,  his  simple  interest  in  natural  life,  and  his  neglect  of  those  narrow- 
minded  superstitious  forms  upon  the  observance  of  which  the  ill-natured  monk 
especially  congratulates  himself. — 10.  Salve  tibi.  Hail  to  thee.  —  39.  Arian.  One 
who  adheres  to  the  doctrines  of  Arius,  a  presbyter  of  the  Church  in  the  fourth  cen- 
tury, who  held  Christ  to  be  a  created  being,  inferior  to  God  the  Father  in  nature 
and  dignity,  though  the  first  and  noblest  of  created  beings.  —  49.  There's  a  great 
text  in  Galatians.  Dr.  Berdoe  writes :  "  The  great  text  I  take  to  be  the  tenth  verse 
of  the  third  chapter:  '  For  as  many  as  are  of  the  works  of  the  law  are  under  the 
curse :  for  it  is  written,  "  Cursed  is  every  one  that  continueth  not  in  all  things  which 
are  written  in  the  book  of  the  law  to  do  them."  '  '  It  is  written,'  — that  is  to  say  in 
the  Book  of  Deuteronomy,  xxviii.  15-68,  wherein  are  set  forth  at  length  the  curses 
for  disobedience.  Those  arithmetically  minded  commentators  on  this  poem,  who 
have  been  disappointed  in  finding  only  some  seventeen  works  of  the  flesh  in  Gala- 
tians v.  19-21,  will  find  an  abundant  opportunity  for  their  discrimination  in  the 
chapter  of  Deuteronomy  to  which  I  refer.  The  question  to  settle  is  '  the  twenty- 
nine  distinct  damnations.'  St.  James  says  in  his  epist'e  (ii.  10)  that  '  he  who 
offends  against  the  law  in  one  point  is  guilty  of  all.'  Ii,  therefore,  the  envious 
monk  could  induce  his  brother  to  trust  to  his  works  instead  of  to  his  faith,  he 
would  fall  under  the  condemnation  of  the  law,  as  explained  by  St.  Paul  in  his  epis- 
tle."— 56.  Manichee,  a  follower  of  Manes,  a  Persian,  who  tried  to  combine  the 
Oriental  philosophy  with  Christianity,  and  maintained  that  there  are  two  supreme 
principles  —  light,  the  author  of  all  good,  and  darkness,  the  author  of  all  evil.  —  71. 
Plene  gratia,  Ave,  Virgo !  Full  of  grace,  Hail,  Virgin.  Evidently  a  slight  change 
of  Ave  Maria  gratia  plena,  demanded  by  the  exigencies  of  rhyme  and  metre. 
('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  1842.  See  Notes,  P.  43.) 

P.  275.  The  Heretic's  Tragedy  is  an  Interlude  imagined  in  the  manner  of  the 
Middle  Ages  and  typically  representing  this  period  of  human  development  in  its 
quaint  piety  and  prejudice,  its  childish  delight  in  cruelty,  and  its  cumulative  legend- 
making  during  the  course  of  two  centuries  as  reflected  through  the  Flemish  nature. 
It  is  supposed  to  be  sung  by  an  abbot,  a  choir-singer,  and  a  chorus,  in  celebration 
of  the  burning  of  Jacques  du  Bourg-Molay,  last  Grand  Master  of  the  wealthy  and 
powerful  secular  order  of  Knights  Templars,  which  came  into  rivalry  with  the 
Church  after  the  Crusades  and  was  finally  suppressed  by  Philip  IV.  of  France  and 
Pope  Clement  V.,  Molay's  burning  at  Paris  in  1314  being  a  final  scene  in  their 
discomfiture  and  the  Church's  triumph.  —  8.  Plagal-cadence.  A  closing  progres- 
sion of  chords  in  which  the  sub-dominant  or  chord  on  the  fourth  degree  of  the 


NOTES. 

scale  precedes  the  tonic  or  chord  on  the  first  degree  of  the  scale.  The  name  arises 
from  the  modes  used  in  early  church  music  called  Plagal  Modes,  which  were  a 
transposition  of  the  authentic  modes  beginning  on  the  fourth  degree  of  the  authen- 
tic modes.—  12.  Bought  of  Aldabrod,  etc.  Clement's  arraignment  of  Jacques  or 
John  being  that  the  riches  won  piously  by  the  order  during  the  Crusades,  he 
had  not  scrupled  to  sell  again  to  Saladin,  the  Sultan,  who  is  portrayed  by  Scott 
in  '  The  Talisman.'  —  14.  Pope  Clement.  The  fifth  Clement,  1305-1314.  —  18. 
clavlcithern,  a  cithern  with  keys  like  a  harpsichord.  — 35.  Sing  "Laudes."  Sing 
the  seven  Psalms  of  praise  making  up  the  service  of  the  church  called  Lauds.— 
47.  Salv&,  etc.  The  bidding  to  greet  here  with  a  reverence,  according  to  cus- 
tom, the  Host,  or  Christ's  flesh,  which  had  been  mentioned.  —  59.  Sharon's  rose. 
Solomon's  Song  ii.  i.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  278.  Holy-Cross  Day  reflects  the  attitude  of  the  corrupt  mediaeval  Chrisiians 
and  Jews  toward  each  other.  The  prose  preceding  the  poem  gives  the  point  of  view 
of  an  imaginary  Bishop's  Secretary,  who  congratulates  himself  upon  the  good  work 
the  Church  is  doing  in  forcing  its  doctrine  on  the  Jews  in  the  Holy-Cross  Day  ser- 
mon, and  effecting  many  conversions.  The  poem  shows  that  the  Jews  regard  this 
solicitude  on  the  part  of  the  Christians  with  hatred  and  scorn,  and  that  their  con- 
versions are  in  derision  of  their  would-be  converters.  The  sarcasm  of  the  speaker 
reaches  a  pinnacle  of  bitterness  when  he  accuses  the  Christian  bishops  of  being 
men  he  had  helped  to  their  sins  and  who  now  help  him  to  their  God.  From  scorn 
toward  such  followers  of  Christ,  he  passes,  in  the  contemplation  of  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra's  death  song,  to  a  defence  of  Christ  against  these  followers  who  profess  but 
do  not  act  his  precepts,  and  a  hope  that  if  the  Jews  were  mistaken  in  not  accepting 
Christ,  the  tortures  they  now  suffer  will  be  received  as  expiation  for  their  sin. 

Holy- Cross  Day  is  September  14.  The  discovery  of  the  true  cross  by  St. 
Helen  inaugurated  the  festival,  celebrated  both  by  Latins  and  Greeks  as  early  as 
the  fifth  or  sixth  centuries,  under  the  title  of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Cross  and  later  in 
commemoration  of  the  alleged  miraculous  appearance  of  the  Cross  to  Constantine 
in  the  sky  at  midday.  Though  the  particular  incidents  of  the  poem  are  not  his- 
torical, it  is  a  fact  (see  Milman's  '  History  of  the  Jews  ')  that,  by  a  Papal  Bull  issued 
by  Gregory  XIII.  in  1584,  all  Jews  above  the  age  of  twelve  years  were  compelled 
to  listen  every  week  to  a  sermon  from  a  Christian  priest.  —  52.  Cor  so,  a  street  in 
Rome.  —  67.  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra.  See  Notes,  P.  207.— in.  Ghetto,  the  Jew's  quar- 
ter. Pope  Paul  IV.  first  shut  the  Jews  up  in  the  Ghetto  and  prohibited  them  from 
leaving  it  after  sunset.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  282.  Amphibian  is  a  fancy  suggested  by  the  contrast  between  a  creature 
whose  realm  is  merely  the  air  and  man  whose  realm  of  earth  can  be  exchanged  at 
times,  as  in  swimming,  for  an  amphibious  life,  dependent  partly  on  water,  partly 
on  air,  and  which  images  a  similar  contrast  between  the  life  of  a  man  on  earth  and 
that  of  an  unbodied  soul  beyond  death,  whose  spiritual  realm  is  approached  by 
the  man  through  his  ability  to  disport  himself  in  the  corresponding  realm  of  thought 
and  passion,  which  is  poetry.  (Prologue  to  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair.'  1873.) 

P.  285.   St.  Martin's  Summer  argues  that  old  loves  though  buried  come  fc 
in  ghostly  shape  to  haunt  the  new  love,  and  remind  it  that  it  may  not  be  enduring; 
therefore  it  is  better  not  to  protest  too  much,  not  to  consider  it  as  durable  masonry, 
which  tempts  destruction,  but  rather  as  a  light  trellis  that  may  either  bend  with  cii 
cumstances,  or  else  fall  flat  without  causing  much  dismay.    But  even  this  cone 
sion  to  the  ghosts  fails  to  reduce  their  interference  to  "  faint  march-music.1 
the  new  love  is  congratulating  itself  upon  having  found  a  safe  basis,  th 
assert  themselves,  proving  that  they  are  more  real  than  the  new  love  which,  in 


490 


NOTES. 


fact,  receives  all  its  glamour  through  the  interfusion  of  their  spirit,  and  the  conclu- 
sion is  that  tears  and  clamor  are  the  sole  portion  of  the  new  love,  and  in  the  dis- 
covery of  this  the  lover  is  even  bereft  of  the  comfort  of  ghosts  of  old  love. 

St.  Martin's  Summer.  From  October  9  to  November  n.  Also  called  Mar- 
tinmas and  Martelmas,  because  the  feast  of  St.  Martin  is  kept  on  November  n. 
The  feast  of  St.  Luke  being  on  October  18,  it  is  also  called  St.  Luke's  Summer. 
It  corresponds  with  our  Indian  Summer.  — 71.  When  Penelope  and  Ulysses  meet 
after  their  long  separation,  in  the  last  book  of  the  '  Odyssey,'  she,  as  soon  as  she  is 
convinced  that  it  is  indeed  her  husband,  throws  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
weeps.  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  288.  James  Lee's  Wife.  A  cycle  of  love-lyrics,  each  representing  a  scene 
in  the  growth  of  a  husband's  estrangement  as  reflected  in  the  mood  of  the  constant 
wife.  In  I.,  which  represents  her  as  having  turned  to  look  out  upon  the  world, 
descrying  in  the  face  of  nature  a  change  ominous  to  her  of  a  change  in  their  love, 
the  mood  is  one  of  vague  dread  and  forecast.  In  II.,  seated  by  the  fireside,  whose 
security  and  cheer  kindle  sinister  suggestions  of  wreck  by  sea  and  land,  the  mood 
is  one  of  poignant  foreboding.  In  III.,  the  outer  world  again  calling  her  attention 
to  the  stormy  and  decrepit  aspects  of  the  waning  year,  the  mood  is  one  of  remon- 
strance against  the  overpowering  of  the  light  of  the  inner  life  by  the  law  of  change 
which  masters  the  external  world.  In  IV.,  the  home  being  left  behind,  the  walk 
and  talk  along  the  beach  reveal  husband  and  wife  on  the  brink  of  alienation. 
Alike  irksome  to  him  are  her  loving,  idealization  and  criticism  of  him,  and  the 
mood  which  here  leads  her  to  anatomize  his  love,  is  one  of  clear  recognition  of  the 
estrangement.  In  V.,  on  the  cliff,  left  alone  and  aloft,  her  mood  is  one  of  brooding 
over  the  meaning  of  love,  finding  appropriate  images  for  her  thoughts  and  feelings 
in  dry  turf  and  cold  rock,  dreary  in  spite  of  sunshine,  but  which  the  cricket  and 
butterfly  visit  with  color,  even  as  love  with  its  resplendent  grace  dowers  the  low 
mind  with  a  sudden  winged  glory.  In  VI.,  turning  for  distraction  to  a  book,  she 
reads  a  fanciful  poem  of  the  wind  as  a  voice  of  human  woes.  Her  impatience  with 
the  young  poet  for  his  easy  assumption  of  defeat  by  imagination  instead  of  experi- 
ence, leads  her  to  put  her  own  actual  experience  into  imaginative  shape,  transitori- 
ness,  she  typifies  in  the  flitting  beauty  of  the  dawn,  making  its  perpetual  call  upon  the 
spiritual  faculty  of  man,  and  urging  him  onward  ceaselessly.  Then  recognizing 
this  insight  into  the  use  of  change  as  a  step  further  on,  her  mood  turns  again  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  human  piteousness  of  perpetual  change.  In  VII.,  at  the  sea's 
edge,  among  its  rocks,  the  mood  that  finds  expression  is  one  of  spiritual  aspiration 
as  the  fruit  of  suffering.  The  autumn  of  the  "brown  old  earth"  diffusing  cheer, 
though  weighted  with  experience,  seems  to  her  fancy  the  embodiment  of  her  insight 
that  the  love  which  is  disappointed  of  its  satisfaction  on  the  natural  plane  of  life 
must  seek  through  that  disappointment  a  finer  spiritual  fruition.  In  VIII.,  beside 
the  drawing-board,  pursuing  in  art  the  impulse  she  has  just  received  to  seek  the 
significance  of  love  on  a  higher  impersonal  plane,  the  hand  whose  beauty  she  is 
learning,  through  her  faulty  drawing,  to  love  becomes  to  her  one  of  God's  many 
exemplifications  of  love  in  skill  or  in  power.  Her  perception  of  its  beauty  as 
beyond  the  human  power,  even  of  a  Da  Vinci  to  outvie,  leads  her  to  understand 
a  Da  Vinci's  interest  in  the  actual  as  well  as  in  the  beautiful.  The  crude  peasant 
hand  in  its  structure  and  uses,  showing  God's  power,  is  as  worthy  of  study  as  the 
perfect  hand  that  shows  God's  skill.  The  mood  expressed  is  one  of  rapid  insight 
through  analogies  of  art  and  experience,  which  imply  that  her  bemoaning  her  love 
for  lack  of  the  ideal  perfection  she  craved  is  like  her  scorn  of  the  peasant  hand  for 
lack  of  the  beauty  of  the  cast.  The  use  that  survives  the  beauty,  and  the  use  that 


NOTES.  49I 

survives  the  failure  of  her  ideal,  remain.  In  IX.,  on  deck,  taking  her  way  in  the 
world  apart  from  her  husband,  the  estrangement  fully  grown  to  the  separation  she 
accepts,  the  final  mood  is  one  of  utter  belief  in  the  power  of  love.  Had  his  love 
been  as  supreme  as  hers  no  fault  in  look  or  thought  would  have  mattered.  (The 
young  poet's  poem,  in  part  VI.,  was  printed  as  '  Lines,1  signed  "  Z."  in  the  Monthly 
Repository,  1836.  As  '  James  Lee,' '  Dramatis  Persona;,'  1864,  entitled  as  at  present 
in  '  Poetical  Works,'  1868.  Set  to  music  by  E.  C.  Gregory,  London :  Novello. 
Ewer,  and  Co.  Part  I., '  Oh,  Love  but  a  Day ! '  by  C6cile  Hartog,  London :  Boosey 
and  Co.,  and  under  title  of '  Wilt  thou  change  too  ?  '  by  Ethel  Harraden,  London : 
C.  Jeffreys.) 

P.  300.  Respectability.  Two  lovers  wandering  in  Paris  at  night  declare  that  had 
they  belonged  to  respectable  society,  many  months  and  years  would  have  been  wasted 
before  they  found  out  the  hollowness  of  social  conventions  and  dared  to  break 
them,  and  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  personal  freedom.  An  illustration  of  the  falseness 
of  convention  is  furnished  by  their  coming  upon  the  Institute  where  Guizot,  hating 
Montalembert  because  of  their  opposite  views,  will  yet  receive  him  with  pretended 
courtesy,  and  they  in  the  flare  of  the  lights  must  also  make  a  pretence  of  respecta- 
bility.—  22.  Guizot,  the  celebrated  French  writer  and  politician.  He  adopted  the 
principles  of  the  Constitutional  Royalists.  (Born  at  Nimes,  1787 ;  died  1874.)  — 
Montalembert,  also  celebrated  as  a  writer  and  politician,  and  a  champion  of 
Catholicism  united  to  democracy.  (Born  in  London,  1810,  his  mother  being  a 
Scotch  lady  and  his  father,  a  peer  of  France ;  died  1870.)  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  301.  Dis  Aliter  Visum.  A  woman's  arraignment  of  a  man's  worldly-wise  de- 
cision against  yielding  to  the  impulse  to  express  the  love  he  felt  for  her.  Her  keen 
recollection  of  their  last  meeting,  and  her  ironical  reproach  of  him,  because  their 
present  meeting  reveals  each  entangled  in  a  degrading  companionship,  find  outlet 
in  the  shape  of  an  undercurrent  of  thought  addressed  to  him  under  cover  of  an 
apparently  light  manner,  suited  to  a  casual  meeting  of  friends.  The  situation 
before  and  after  the  ten  dividing  years  that  have  passed  is  made  clear ;  and  not 
less  so  her  conclusion,  that  his  wise  caution  was  unwise  and  cowardly  from  the 
larger  point  of  view,  thwarting  to  their  soul-development  thenceforth,  and  involving 
two  others,  moreover,  in  their  spiritual  blight.  The  double  title  emphasizes  the 
moral  motive  of  the  poem :  Dis  Aliter  Visum,  "  The  gods  see  otherwise,"  words 
used  by  Virgil,  '^Eneid,'  ii.  579,  after  describing  the  last  vain  resistance  of  the  Greeks 
by  the  Trojans.  —  Le  Byron  de  nos  jours.  "The  modern  Byron,"  that  is,  the  lover 
who  excites  passion,  but  does  not  indulge  love.  —  Schumann,  Robert,  musical 
composer  and  critic,  1810-1856.  —  Ingres,  Jean  August,  painter,  1780-1867.  —  Heine, 
Heinrich,  lyrical  poet,  1800-1856.  —  Votive  frigate.  The  model  of  a  vessel  hang- 
ing in  the  church,  the  pious  (votive)  offering,  presumably,  of  one  whom  the  saints 
had  aided  to  make  a  safe  voyage.  —  Sure  of  the  fortiftk  spare  arm-chair.  Sure  of 
being  elected  to  fill  the  first  vacancy  in  membership  of  forty  of  the  French  Academy. 
('  Dramatis  Personae,'  1864.) 

P.  306.  Confessions.  A  dying  man  confessing  to  a  priest  refuses  to  be  over- 
come by  a  sense  of  the  world's  badness,  but  dwells  instead  upon  the  sweetness  of 
love  as  he  tells  of  his  stolen  interviews  with  a  girl  he  loved,  illustrating  with  his 
medicine  bottles  and  the  curtain,  which  from  their  arrangement  call  up  a  vision  in  all 
its  details  of  the  scene  where  the  lovers  used  to  meet.  ('  Dramatis  Personae,'  1864.) 

P.  307.  The  Householder  is  a  symbolical  poem,  humorously  and  dramatically 
prefiguring  a  scene  of  re-union  between  any  husband,  dominant  in  his  house  of 
flesh  and  marriage  custom,  who  has  had  enough  of  the  experimentation  accorded 
husbands,  and  any  wife,  whose  less  fleshly  and  more  protected  experience  has  not 


492 


NOTES. 


been  less  wearing  than  his.  The  wife  sums  up  the  outcome  of  the  discipline  that 
has  developed  both,  with  the  statement  of  the  Ideal  that  has  been  their  guiding 
star  in  the  evolution  of  a  better  marriage,  —  "  Love  is  all  and  Death  is  nought." 
(Epilogue  to  '  Fifine  at  the  Fair,'  1872.) 

P.  308.  Tray.  The  speaker,  thirsting  for  a  sbng  of  heroism  to  stir  his  soul, 
dismisses  those  offered  by  two  Bards,  one  of  the  heroism  of  war,  the  other  of 
moral  heroism,  and  gives  the  preference  to  the  story  of  a  brave  dog  who  rescued 
a  beggar  child  from  drowning.  With  graphic  touches,  the  scene  of  the  rescue  is 
placed  before  the  reader,  while  the  teller  of  the  story  hints  that  the  instinct  of  the 
dog  to  save  life,  without  regard  to  persons  or  consequences,  is  more  worthy  of 
admiration  than  the  human  reason  which  calculates  so  much  upon  consequences 
that  it  "does  nothing,  and  is  even  so  blind  to  the  moral  aspect  of  the  dog's  act 
that  it  thinks  by  vivisection  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  instinct.  ('  Dramatic 
Idyls,'  1879.) 

P.  310.  Cavalier  Tunes.  Three  rousing  songs  rendering  to  the  life  the  stalwart 
and  confident  temper  of  the  uprising  for  King  Charles  against  the  Parliament. 
— 7.  Pym,  John  (1584-1643),  leader  of  the  Parliament  party  in  every  important 
movement,  from  the  impeachments  of  Buckingham  and  Strafford,  to  the  proceed- 
ings against  their  Royal  Master  himself. — 14.  Hampdcn,  John  (1594-1643), 
advocate  for  the  people  against  the  king's  right  to  exact  the  ship-money  tax.  He 
took  up  arms  in  the  civil  war,  falling  in  the  engagement  of  Chalgrove  Field  against 
Prince  Rupert.  — 15.  Hazelrig,  Sir  Arthur,  introduced  Pym's  bill  of  attainder 
against  Strafford,  and  was  one  of  the  five  members  Charles  tried  to  impeach  in 
1642.  Died  in  the  Tower,  1661.  Fiennes,  Nathaniel  (1608-1669),  a  rigid  Presby- 
terian and  leading  member  of  Parliament,  in  special  favor  with  Cromwell.  Young 
Harry,  son  of  the  Secretary  of  State  to  Charles  I.,  Sir  Henry  Vane  the  elder, 
held  views  opposed  to  his  father's,  and  distinguished  himself  as  a  Liberal.  Be- 
headed i,n  1662  on  a  charge  of  high  treason.  —  16.  Rupert,  Prince  Robert,  of 
Bavaria  (1619-1682),  son  of  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  James  I.  He  embraced  the 
cause  of  his  uncle,  Charles  I.,  and  went  to  England  at  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war, 
proving  himself  a  brave  but  imprudent  soldier.—  II.  16.  Notts  damned  troopers. 
Oliver  Cromwell's  own  company  of  horse,  noted  for  their  discipline  and  valot. 
('  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,"  1842,  III.,  originally  entitled, 
'  My  Wife  Gertrude,'  as  now  in  '  Poems,'  1849.  Set  to  music  by  C.  V.  Stanford.) 

P.  312.  Before  and  After.  '  Before '  is  an  argument  on  the  part  of  a  third 
person  in  favor  of  two  men  fighting  out  a  quarrel,  on  the  grounds  that  the  one  in 
the  wrong  will  never  acknowledge  his  guilt,  and  the  wronged  one  will  not  forgive 
as  long  as  there  is  wrong  to  be  resisted ;  while  if  the  guilty  man  lives,  life  with  its 
ever  recurrent  reminders  of  his  deed  will  be  constant  torment  for  him,  and  thus  he 
will  be  fitly  punished,  and  if  the  guiltless  man  dies,  he  will  but  have  borne  one 
stroke  more  in  the  cause  of  truth  and  will  win  heaven.  '  After '  reflects  the  feelings 
of  the  man  who  survives  after  the  quarrel  —  the  wronged  man,  who  realizes  when 
it  is  too  late,  that  death  avails  nought  to  erase  either  offence  or  disgrace.  If  only 
their  old  days  of  friendship  could  be  recalled  how  easily  all  might  be  borne. 
('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  314.  Herve  Riel.  A  ballad  of  the  Breton  hero  who  piloted  the  French 
ships  into  harbor  and  saved  them  from  the  English,  and  being  urged  to  name  his 
own  reward  asked  leave  to  go  and  see  his  wife.  "  Written  in  1867,  published  1871, 
in  the  Cornhill,  because  Browning  desired  to  give  a  subscription  to  the  Fund  on 
behalf  of  the  French  after  the  siege  of  Paris  by  the  Germans  in  1870-71.  He  sent 
the  ;£ioo  given  by  Mr.  Smith  for  the  poem  to  that  fund.  When  the  poem 


493 

appeared,  the  facts  of  the  story  were  denied  at  St.  Malo;  but  on  the  reports  to  the 
French  Admiralty  of  the  time  being  looked  up,  they  were  found  to  be  correct. 
Browning  was  mistaken,  however,  in  stating  that  Herve  Riel  was  granted  but  one 
day's  holiday  in  which  to  see  his  wife,  "  La  Belle  Aurore,"  —  that  is.  if  the  Notes 
sur  le  Croisic  (par  Caillo  Jeune)  are  correct :  "  Ce  brave  homme  ne  demanda  pour 
recompense  d'un  service  aussi  signale,  qu'un  conge  absolu  pour  rejoindre  sa 
femme,  qu'il  nommait  la  Belle  Aurore."  This  fact  was  brought  to  the  poet's 
notice  by  Dr.  Furnivall,  to  whom  he  writes :  "  Where  do  you  find  that  the  holiday 
of  Herv6  Riel  was  for  more  than  a  day—  his  whole  life-time  ?  If  it  is  to  be  found, 
I  have  strangely  overlooked  it."  That  he  had  "  overlooked  it "  is  evident  from  the 
following  letter :  — 

"...  You  are  undoubtedly  right,  and  I  have  mistaken  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase  —  I  suppose  through  thinking  that,  if  the  coasting-pilot's  business  ended 
with  reaching  land,  he  might  claim  as  a  right  to  be  let  go  :  otherwise,  an  absolute 
discharge  seems  to  approach  in  importance  a  substantial  reward.  Still  —  truth 
above  all  things."  (Poet-lore,  Feb.  1896.)  —  i.  at  the  Hague.  "  Cap  la  Hougue."  — 
2.  The  English,  etc.  Louis  XIV.  had  sent  an  expedition  against  England  to 
restore  James  II.  to  the  throne,  when  the  English  and  Dutch  fleets  fell  upon  them 
and  the  French  retired.  —  5.  St.  Malo.  An  island  in  the  mouth  of  the  Ranee  River. — 
30.  Plymouth  Sound.  The  harbor  of  the  Devonshire  English  naval  station.  —  43. 
Tourville.  The  French  naval  leader.  —  46.  Malouins.  Inhabitants  of  St.  Malo. — 
50.  Greve.  The  dangerous  sands  left  bare  by  the  ebbing  tide. — 53.  Solidor.  The 
fort  defending  the  bay  of  St.  Michel.  ('  Pacchiarotto  with  other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  318.  In  a  Balcony  presents  in  three  dramatic  scenes  a  crisis  in  the  lives  of 
three  human  beings,  ending  tragically  for  two  of  them.  The  dramatic  motive  is 
the  conflict  between  truth  on  the  part  of  Norbert,  and  dissembling  policy  on  the 
part  of  Constance,  who  winning  her  way  loses  all  she  thought  to  have  gained  and 
more,  while  had  Norbert's  straightforward  course  been  followed,  all  would  have 
been  gained  for  both.  As  it  is,  Constance,  misunderstanding  the  true  nature,  both 
of  the  Queen  and  of  Norbert,  tries  to  convince  Norbert  that  if  he  should  now  ask 
her  hand  of  the  Queen, — from  whom  he  has  just  won  such  high  favor  on  account  of 
his  services,  that  he  might  aspire  to  ask  of  her  anything,  even  to  the  sharing  of  her 
crown  —  the  revulsion  of  feeling  will  be  so  great  upon  the  discovery  that  all  was  for 
the  sake  of  Constance  and  not  primarily  for  her,  that  not  only  will  she  not  grant  his 
request,  but  his  own  future  prospects  will  be  ruined.  Rather  than  this,  Constance 
would  have  their  love  remain  unannounced,  but  he  will  not  consent  to  anything 
less  than  a  frank  avowal  to  all  the  world  of  his  love,  and  is  ready  to  rely  on  the 
justice  of  the  Queen  to  grant  him  the  reward  he  chooses.  Against  his  better 
judgment,  he  finally  submits  to  follow  the  advice  of  Constance  so  far  as  to  flatter 
the  Queen  by  insinuating  that  he  asks  for  Constance,  because  she  is  as  near  as  he 
dare  approach  to  the  Queen.  When  Constance  learns  that  the  Queen  has  mis- 
taken Norbert's  dissembling  for  an  avowal  of  love  to  herself,  that  she  is  over- 
whelmed with  joy,  and  how  great  her  sufferings  have  been  through  the  starving  of 
her  affections,  with  sympathies  roused  and  with  fears  for  the  consequences  if  the 
Queen  finds  out  the  mistake,  she  tries  to  force  Norbert,  whose  character  she  still 
fails  fully  to  comprehend,  into  actually  giving  himself  to  the  Queen.  Norbert  now 
shows  himself  the  champion  of  truth  at  any  cost,  but  too  late.  The  Queen  is 
undeceived,  but  cannot  forgive  the  deception.  Constance,  at  last,  learns  to  know 
Norbert  as  he  really  is,  and  her  love  reaches  a  height  worthy  of  his.—  130.  Kubens 
(1577-1640),  the  greatest  of  the  Flemish  school  of  painters.  ('  Men  and  Women,1 
18S50 


494  NOTES. 

P-  339-  Old  Pictures  in  Florence  is  a  plea  for  the  catholic  appreciation  of 
all  exponents  and  schools  of  art  as  related  parts  in  the  whole  plan  of  man's  soul- 
growth,  and,  especially,  for  the  due  praise  of  those  early  painters  whose  decaying 
work  is  still  unapprehended,  yet  who  were  the  pioneers  in  the  development  of  the 
perfected  art  of  the  great  Italian  Masters.  This  is  expressed  in  the  course  of  the 
spontaneous  soliloquy  of  a  genuine  art-critic  whose  picture-collecting  is  a  labor  of 
love.  His  delight  in  Giotto's  bell-tower,  aspiring  above  the  beauty  of  Florence  on 
a  certain  warm  March  morning,  provokes  these  thoughts,  also  the  reproaches  he 
sportively  addresses  to  the  ghosts  of  the  artists  he  is  so  alone  in  understanding 
that  they  have  not  helped  him  to  ferret  out  their  lost  art  treasures.  Even  his 
adored,  great  Giotto  has  let  another  discover  a  "  certain  precious  little  tablet "  he 
will  not  yet  give  up  hoping  to  secure,  and  in  anticipation  of  which  he  closes  his 
musings  with  a  prophecy  of  Florence  freed  from  the  Austrian  yoke,  celebrating  her 
liberty  by  no  noisy  demonstration,  but  by  sympathetically  correlating  the  historic 
evolutions  of  art  and  life,  attributing  the  fruitful  periods  to  the  Republic,  the  sterile 
to  Monarchy,  and  carrying  on  the  unfinished  work  of  Giotto  to  a  new  pinnacle  of 
glory.  — 15.  Bell-tower  Giotto  raised.  The  Campanile  of  Santa  Maria  in  Florence, 
founded  1334,  from  designs  and  models  of  Giotto's  which  were  his  last  public 
work.  —  64.  Da  Vincis  derive  from  Delias.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  (1452-1519) 
representing  the  fullest  scope  of  artistic  power;  Niccolo  Dello,  who  painted  cas- 
soni,  in  the  style  of  the  bird-painter  Uccelli,  with  careful  perspective,  representing 
the  power  of  art  in  little.  —  69.  Stefano,  a  pupil  of  Giotto's,  called  the  "  Ape  of 
Nature"  for  his  improved  color  and  softness.  —  97.  Sit  like  Theseus.  As  repre- 
sented in  the  sculptures  from  the  Parthenon  now  in  the  British  Museum.  — 98.  Son 
of  Priam.  The  Paris  (A  the  ^Egina  sculptures,  kneeling  and  drawing  a  bow, 
now  in  the  Munich  Glyptothek.  —  TOT.  Slay  your  snake  like  Apollo.  See  Brown- 
ing's own  note. — 102.  Niobe's  the  grander.  The  sculptured  Niobe  mourning  for 
her  children,  now  in  the  Uffizi,  Florence. —  103.  Racers'  frieze.  From  the  Parthe- 
non.—  104.  Dying  Alexander.  The  sculptured  head,  so  called,  now  in  Florence. 
— 134.  Thy  one  work  .  .  .  done  at  a  stroke.  When  the  envoy  of  Benedict  IX., 
visiting  Giotto,  asked  for  a  drawing  to  carry  as  a  proof  of  his  skill  to  that  Pope, 
Giotto  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  brushful  of  red  paint,  and  resting  his  elbow  on 
his  hip,  to  form  a  sort  of  compass,  with  one  turn  of  his  hand  drew  a  circle  so  per- 
fect that  it  was  a  marvel  to  behold,  whence  the  proverb  "  rounder  than  the  O 
of  Giotto."  — 179.  Nicolo  (1207-1278)  and  Cimabue  (1240-1302),  Giotto's  teacher, 
pioneers  both  of  a  more  natural  art.  — 182.  Ghiberti,  Lorenzo  (1381-1455),  and 
Ghirlandajo  or  Domenico  Bigordi,  the  great  Bigordi,  line  201  (1449-1494). — 
198.  Dree.  Endure,  Anglo  Saxon  dreogan.  —  202.  Sandro.  Filipepi  or  Botticelli, 
1457-1515.  —  203.  Lippino  (1460-1505),  son  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  "  wronged  "  be- 
cause his  work  was  credited  to  others.  —  203.  Angelica  (1387-1455),  greatest  of 
monastic  painters.  —  204.  Gaddi  (1300-1366),  Giotto's  pupil  who  carried  out 
his  plans  for  erecting  the  bell-tower.  —  205.  intonaco.  Rough  plaster  cast.  — 
207.  Monaco  (about  1410),  a  monastic  painter.  —  210.  Pollajolo  (1430-1498),  first 
artist  to  study  anatomy.  —  215.  Baldovinetti  (1422-1499),  distinguished  for  his 
minuteness. —  217.  Margheritone  (1236-1313),  among  the  first  to  show  some  de- 
parture from  the  Byzantine  manner.  Crucifix  painting  was  his  specialty.  His 
sour  expression  refers  to  mixed  disdain  and  despair  excited  in  him  by  Giotto's  inno- 
vations, which  made  him  take  to  his  death-bed  in  vexation.  The  epithet  "  poll- 
clawed  parrot "  applied  to  him  by  Browning  seems  to  be  a  reminiscence  from 
Shakespeare:  2  Henry  IV.  ii.  4,  282.  The  pictures  described  in  stanzas  twenty- 
seven  and  twenty-eight,  Browning  possessed.  —  230.  Calm  as  Zeno.  The  first  stoic 


NOTES.  495 

philosopher.  — 232.  Carlino,  Carlo  Dolci  (1616-1686)  .whose  pictures  were  smoothed 
into  lifelessness.  —  236.  A  certain  tablet.  This,  Browning  wrote  Dr.  Corson,  "  was 
a  famous  'Last  Supper'  mentioned  by  Vasari,  gone  astray  long  ago  from  the 
Church  of  S.  Spirito :  it  turned  up,  according  to  report,  in  some  obscure  corner, 
while  I  was  in  Florence,  and  was  at  once  acquired  by  some  stranger.  I  saw  it, 
genuine  or  no,  a  work  of  great  beauty."  —  242.  Ognissantl.  All  Saints  Church. — 
244.  Detur  Amanti.  Let  it  be  given  to  the  loving  one. — 245.  Kohinoor.  The 
celebrated  diamond, "  Mountain  of  light,"  presented  to  Queen  Victoria  in  1850; 
the  Jewel  of  Giamschid,  its  only  rival,  belonging  to  the  king  of  Persia.  —  249.  A 
certain  dotard.  Joseph  Wenzel  Radetzky  (1766-1858),  governor  of  Italy  for  the 
Austrians.  For  the  allusions  in  stanza  thirty-three,  see,  as  Browning  suggests, 
Mrs.  Browning's  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows,'  Part  I.  —  260.  Quod  -videos  ante,  "  which 
you  may  have  seen  before." — 264.  Orgagna,  Andrea  (1315-1376),  an  artist  who 
derived  from  Giotto  yet  without  imitation.  —  271.  Chimcera.  A  three-headed 
monster,  "  one  indeed,"  says  Hesiod,  "  of  a  grim-visaged  lion,  one  of  a  goat,  and 
another  of  a  serpent,"  —  an  unnatural  birth.  —  275.  Half-told  tale.  Chaucer's 
unfinished  story  of  Cambuscan  in  the  '  Squire's  Tale.'  —  277.  Beccaccia.  Wood- 
cock. —  279.  Fifty  braccia,  etc.  The  Campanile,  as  Giotto  planned  it,  was  to  have 
been  crowned  by  a  spire  fifty  braccia  (cubits)  high.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  347.  Bishop  Blougram's  Apology  is  made  over  the  wine  after  dinner,  to 
defend  himself  from  the  criticisms  of  a  doubting  young  literary  man,  who  despises 
him  because  he  considers  that  he  cannot  be  true  to  his  convictions  in  conforming 
to  the  doctrines  of  the  Catholic  Church.  He  builds  up  his  defence  from  the  prop- 
osition that  the  problem  of  life  is  not  to  conceive  ideals  which  cannot  be  realized, 
but  to  find  what  is  and  make  it  as  fair  as  possible.  The  bishop  admits  his  unbelief, 
but  being  free  to  choose  either  belief  or  unbelief,  since  neither  can  be  proved 
wholly  true,  chooses  belief  as  his  guiding  principle,  because  he  finds  it  the  best  for 
making  his  own  life  and  that  of  others  happy  and  comfortable  in  this  world.  Once 
having  chosen  faith  on  this  ground,  the  more  absolute  the  form  of  faith,  the  more 
potent  the  results ;  besides,  the  bishop  has  that  desire  of  domination  in  his  nature, 
which  the  authorization  of  the  Church  makes  safer  for  him.  To  Gigadibs'  objec- 
tion that  were  his  nature  nobler,  he  would  not  count  this  success,  he  replies  he  is 
as  God  made  him,  and  can  but  make  the  best  of  himself  as  he  is.  To  the  objection 
that  he  addresses  himself  to  grosser  estimators  than  he  ought,  he  replies  that  all 
the  world  is  interested  in  the  fact  that  a  man  of  his  sense  and  learning,  too,  still 
believes  at  this  late  hour.  He  points  out  the  impossibility  of  his  following  an  ideal 
like  Napoleon's,  for  conceding  the  merest  chance  that  doubt  may  be  wrong,  and 
judgment  to  follow  this  life,  he  would  not  dare  to  slaughter  men  as  Napoleon  had 
for  such  slight  ends.  As  for  Shakespeare's  ideal,  he  can't  write  plays  like  his  if  he 
wanted  to,  but  he  has  realized  things  in  his  life  which  Shakespeare  only  imagined, 
and  which  he  presumes  Shakespeare  would  not  have  scorned  to  have  realized  in 
his  life,  judging  from  his  fulfilled  ambition  to  be  a  gentleman  of  property  at  Strat- 
ford. He  admits,  however,  that  enthusiasm  in  belief,  such  as  Luther's,  would  be 
far  preferable  to  his  own  way  of  living,  and  after  this,  enthusiasm  in  unbelief,  which 
he  might  have  if  it  were  not  for  that  plaguy  chance  that  doubt  may  be  wrong. 
Gigadibs  interposes  that  the  risk  is  as  great  for  cool  indifference  as  for  bold  doubt 
Blougram  disputes  that  point  by  declaring  that  doubts  prove  faith,  and  that  man's 
free  will  preferring  to  have  faith  true  to  having  doubt  true  tips  the  balance  in  favor 
of  faith  and  shows  that  man's  instinct  or  aspiration  is  toward  belief,  that  unques 
tioning  belief,  such  as  that  of  the  Past,  has  no  moral  effect  on  man,  but  f; 
which  knows  itself  through  doubt  is  a  moral  spur.  Thus  the  arguments  from 


496  NOTES. 

expediency,  instinct,  and  consciousness,  all  bear  on  the  side  of  faith  and  convince 
the  bishop  that  it  is  safer  to  keep  his  faith  intact  from  his  doubts.  He  then  proves 
that  Gigadibs,  with  all  his  assumption  of  superiority  in  his  frankness  of  unbelief,  is 
in  about  the  same  position  as  himself,  since  the  moral  law  which  he  follows  has  no 
surer  foundation  than  the  religious  law  the  bishop  follows,  both  founded  upon 
instinct.  The  bishop  closes  as  he  began,  with  the  consciousness  that  rewards  for 
his  way  of  living  are  of  a  substantial  nature,  while  Gigadibs  has  nothing  to  show 
for  his  frankness,  and  does  not  hesitate  to  say  that  Gigadibs  will  consider  his  con- 
versation with  the  bishop  the  greatest  honor  ever  conferred  upon  him.  The  poet 
adds  some  lines,  somewhat  apologetic  for  the  bishop,  intimating  that  his  arguments 
were  suited  to  the  calibre  of  his  critic,  and  that  with  a  profounder  critic  he  would 
have  made  a  more  serious  defence.  Speaking  of  a  review  of  this  poem  by 
Cardinal  Wiseman,  Browning  says  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  printed  in  Poet-lore,  May, 
1896,  "  The  most  curious  notice  I  ever  had  was  from  Cardinal  Wiseman  on 
Blougram  —  i.e.,  himself.  It  was  in  the  Rambler,  a  Catholic  journal  of  those  days, 
and  certified  to  be  his  by  Father  Prout,  who  said  nobody  else  would  have  dared 
put  it  in."  This  review  praises  the  poem  for  its  "  fertility  of  illustration  and 
felicity  of  argument,"  and  says  that  "  though  utterly  mistaken  in  the  very  ground- 
work of  religion,  though  starting  from  the  most  unworthy  notions  of  the  work  of  a 
Catholic  bishop,  and  defending  a  self-indulgence  every  honest  man  must  feel  to  be 
disgraceful,  [it]  is  yet  in  its  way  triumphant." —  10.  Brother  Pugin  (1810-1852),  an 
eminent  English  architect,  who,  becoming  a  Catholic,  designed  many  cathedrals 
for  the  Catholic  Church.  —  34.  Corpus  Chrlsti  Day,  Thursday  after  Trinity  Sunday, 
when  the  Feast  of  the  Sacrament  of  the  Altar  is  celebrated.  —  45.  Che,  what.  —  54. 
Count  D'  Orsay  (1798-1852),  a  clever  Frenchman,  distinguished  as  a  man  of  fashion, 
and  for  his  drawings  of  horses.  — 113.  Parma's  pride,  the  Jerome  ;  114.  Correggio  ; 
117.  Modenese.  In  the  Ducal  academy  at  Parma,  one  of  the  most  important 
paintings  is  the  St.  Jerome  by  Correggio.  He  was  born  in  the  territory  of  Modena, 
Italy.  — 184.  A  chorus-ending  from  Euripides.  The  Greek  dramatist,  Euripides 
(480  B.C.-4O6  B.C.) ,  frequently  ended  his  choruses  with  this  thought  —  sometimes 
with  slight  variations  in  expression  :  "  The  Gods  perform  many  things  contrary  to 
our  expectations,  and  those  things  which  we  looked  for  are  not  accomplished;  but 
God  hath  brought  to  pass  things  unthought  of."  —  316.  Hildebrand  (Gregory  VII., 
1073-85) ,  claimed  the  temporal  power  of  the  Popes  and  the  authority  of  the  Papacy 
over  sovereigns. —  411.  Schilling,  distinguished  German  philosopher  (1775-1854). — 
516.  Giulio  Romano  (1492-1546),  Italian  painter,  referred  to  in  'Winter's  Tale,' 
v.  ii.  Dowland,  English  musician,  praised  for  his  lute  playing  in  a  sonnet  in 
'The  Passionate  Pilgrim,'  attributed  to  Shakespeare.  —  588.  Strauss  (1808-74), one 
of  the  Tubingen  philosophers,  author  of  a  Rationalistic  'Life  of  Jesus." — 715. 
King  Bomba,  means  King  Puffcheek,  King  Liar,  King  Knave,  a  sobriquet  given 
to  Ferdinand  II.,  late  king  of  the  Two  Sicilies.  Lazzaroni,  Naples  beggars,  named 
from  Lazarus.  —  716.  Antonelli,  Cardinal,  secretary  of  Pope  Pius  IX.  —  728.  Naples 
liquefaction.  The  supposed  miracle  of  the  liquefaction  of  the  blood  of  St.  Janu- 
arius  the  Martyr.  A  small  quantity  of  it  is  preserved  in  a  crystal  reliquary  in  the 
great  church  at  Naples,  and  when  brought  into  the  presence  of  the  head  of  the 
saint  it  melts.  —  744.  Fichte  (1762-1814),  celebrated  German  metaphysician.  He 
defined  God  as  the  "  moral  order  of  the  universe."  —  877.  Pastor  est  tui  Dominus,  the 
Lord  is  your  shepherd.  —  915.  Anacreon,  Greek  lyric  poet  of  the  sixth  century  B.C. 
—  972.  Inpartibus,  Episcopus,  etc.  "  In  countries  where  the  Roman  Catholic  faith 
is  not  regularly  established,  as  it  was  not  in  England  before  the  time  of  Cardinal 
Wiseman,  there  were  no  bishops  of  sees  in  the  kingdom  itself,  but  they  took  their 
titles  from  heathen  lands"  'Dr.  Berdoe).  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 


NOTES. 

P.  369.  Mr.  Sludge  -the  Medium  is  a  humorous  monologue  conveying  an 
American  medium's  defence  to  his  patron  who  has  caught  him  in  cheating  fol- 
lowed by  a  short  soliloquy  conveying  his  unequivocal  self-exposure  The  whole 
presents  dramatically  the  conditions  and  nature,  both  of  spiritualism  and  the  belief 
in  spiritualism,  current  in  the  middle  part  of  the  nineteenth  century  illustrating  the 
credulity  of  the  public  and  the  self-deception  of  the  medium.  Hawthorne  in  his 
'  French  and  Italian  Note-books,'  June  9, 1858,  writes :  "  Browning  and  his  wife  had 
both  been  present  at  a  spiritual  session  held  by  Mr.  Home  [the  American  medium 
David  U.  Home],  and  had  seen  and  felt  the  unearthly  hands,  one  of  which  had 
placed  a  laurel  wreath  on  Mrs.  Browning's  head.  Browning,  however,  avowed  his 
belief  that  these  hands  were  affixed  to  the  feet  of  Mr.  Home,  who  lay  extended  in 
his  chair,  with  his  legs  stretched  far  under  the  table.  The  marvellousness 
melted  strangely  away  in  his  hearty  gripe,  and  at  the  sharp  touch  of  his  logic."  — 
168.  Parson,  Richard  (1759-1808),  the  celebrated  sc1  olar,  professor  of  Greek  and 
librarian  of  the  London  Institution.  —  346.  Hymn  in  G  with  natural F,  etc.  Impos- 
sible music,  of  course,  since  the  scale  of  G  requires  F  sharp,  and  a  piece  set  in 
consecutive  fourths  would  be  cacophony.  — 788.  Pasiphce.  Wife  of  Minos,  and  ac- 
cording to  the  Greek  myth  enamoured  of  a  bull.  —  921.  Charles's  •  Wain.  The  con- 
stellation of  the  Great  Bear.  — 1140.  Bridge-water  Book.  The  Bridgewater  treatises 
were  written  to  meet  the  thesis  set  by  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  "  On  the  Power,  Wis- 
dom, and  Goodness  of  God  as  manifested  in  Creation,"  for  which  purpose  he 
bequeathed  £8000,  in  1829,  to  the  Royal  Society.  ('  Dramatis  Personse,'  1864.) 

P.  403.  The  Boy  and  the  Angel.  An  imaginary  legend  illustrating  me  worth 
of  humble,  human  love  to  God,  who  missed  in  the  praise  of  the  Pope,  Theocrite, 
and  of  the  Angel  Gabriel,  the  precious  human  quality  in  the  song  of  the  poor  boy, 
Theocrite.  (Hood's  Magazine,  August,  1844,  rewritten  with  five  new  couplets  added 
in  '  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  7  —  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,1  1845.  In 
the  '  Poetical  Works '  of  1868,  a  fresh  verse  was  added.) 

P.  406.  A  Death  in  the  Desert  is  a  supposed  MS.  account  of  St.  John's 
dying  testimony  to  the  truth  of  the  revelation  of  God  made  man  through  Christ. 
John's  own  spiritual  faith  transcends  the  idea  of  evidence  as  dependent  upon  wit- 
ness or  memory  of  signs  and  wonders.  He  has  been  nourished  on  such  external 
evidence  to  the  end  that  his  faith  now  rests  upon  internal  evidence,  —  has  become 
one  with  the  desires  and  aspirations  of  his  soul.  Foreseeing  future  scrutiny  of  the 
superficial  truth  of  fact,  he  meets  these  doubts  by  declaring  that  there  must  be 
development  in  the  nature  of  the  evidence  which  shall  appeal  to  developing  man ; 
and  that  man's  progress  is  dependent  on  his  finding  a  developing  internal  warrant 
for  faith  in  Absolute  Love  and  Power,  the  good  for  man  of  proof,  consisting  merely 
in  its  capacity  to  educe  his  faith,  not  to  enable  him  to  dispense  with  the  need  of 
it.  So,  when  man  can  perceive  will  and  love  in  man,  before  assumed  to  be  alto- 
gether God's,  instead  of  requiring  conviction  from  ihe  sort  of  proof  that  satisfied 
less  developed  man?  Jet  him  exert  his  faith  in  the  essential  truth,  acknowledging  its 
action  as  a  result  of  old  processes  outgrown  because  assimilated,  and  not  disproved 
because  in  essence  true.  Pamphylax,  Xanthus,  Valeus,  Theotypas,  and  narrative 
and  gloss  are  all  imagined  by  Browning,  the  Revelation  and  Gospel  of  St.  John 
being  the  main  sources  feeding  the  inspiration  of  the  poem.  —  6.  Terebinth.  The 
turpentine  tree.  —  23.  The  decree.  Some  decree  ordering  the  persecution  of  the 
Christians,  perhaps  Domitian's.  — 50.  Ball  of  nard.  Spikenard,  giving  an  aro- 
matic odor.  — 279.  Prometheus.  The  Titan  .who  stole  fire  from  Olympos  and 
brought  it  to  man,  defying  Zeus  who  had  refused  it.  ^Eschylus  founded  his 
'  Prometheus  Bound '  upon  the  myth,  and  possibly  in  the  two  other  parts  of  this 


498 


NOTES. 


Trilogy  which  have  not  come  down  to  us,  his  satyrs  may  have  touched  it  in  gay 
wonder  as  Browning  imagines.  —  329.  This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus.  Ebion  is  said 
to  have  been  a  pupil  of  Cerinthus,  but  may  not  have  been  a  real  person.  Cerinthus 
was  a  contemporary  of  John,  or  nearly  so,  who  held  the  Ebionite  heresy  that  the 
Christ  part  only  resided  in  Jesus,  who  was  merely  human,  and  that  this  divine  part 
was  not  crucified,  having  flown  away  before.  ('  Dramatis  Personas,'  1864.) 

P.  421.  Fears  and  Scruples  gives  expression  to  the  doubts  which  beset  one 
who  formerly  believed  implicitly  in  God  (symbolized  as  an  Unseen  Friend),  but 
whose  belief  has  been  shaken  by  the  criticisms  of  others,  whom  he  wishes  he 
might  refute  with  a  word ;  but  God  makes  no  direct  revelations  to  him,  so  he  con- 
cludes that  though  his  belief  is  not  capable  of  absolute  proof  he  will  be  thankful 
for  the  truth  manifest  in  the  ideal.  Even  this  position  is  assaulted  by  a  menace 
from  some  one  who  suggests  that  perhaps  God  is  simply  trying  man's  faith  by  not 
revealing  himself,  and  will  blame  man  for  not  gaining  a  knowledge  of  him  through 
all  obstructions.  But  that  God  would  be  a  monster,  who  refused  to  accept  love 
because  it  had  not  attained  perfect  knowledge  of  him,  for  is  not  man  ready  to 
love  him  fully  revealed  as  he  already  loves  his  manifestations?  The  only  answer 
to  this  is  that  God  is  God  —  something  higher  not  lower  than  man.  In  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Wm.  G.  Kingsland,  Browning  thus  interpreted  the  poem  :  — 

"  I  think  that  the  point  I  wanted  to  illustrate  in  the  poem  you  mention  was  this : 
Where  there  is  a  genuine  love  of  the  '  letters  '  and  '  actions '  of  the  invisible  '  friend,' 
—  however  these  may  be  disadvantaged  by  an  inability  to  meet  the  objections  to 
their  authenticity  or  historical  value  urged  by  '  experts  '  who  assume  the  privilege 
of  learning  over  ignorance,  —  it  would  indeed  be  a  wrong  to  the  wisdom  and  good- 
ness of  the  '  friend '  if  he  were  supposed  capable  of  overlooking  the  actual '  love ' 
and  only  considering  the  '  ignorance '  which,  failing  to  in  any  degree  affect  '  love  ' 
is  really  the  highest  evidence  that '  love  '  exists.  So  I  meant,  whether  the  result  be 
clear  or  no.  .  .  ."  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  422.  Artemis  Prologizes  represents  the  goddess  Artemis  awaiting  the 
revival  of  the  youth  Hippolytus,  whom  she  has  carried  to  her  woods  an'd  given  to 
Asclepios  to  heal.  It  is  a  fragment  meant  to  introduce  an  unwritten  work  and 
carry  on  the  story  related  by  Euripides  in  '  Hippolytus.'  ('  Bells  and  Pomegranates, 
No.  3  —  Dramatic  Lyrics,'  1842.) 

P.  425.  Pheidippides  is  founded  on  a  historical  legend  told  by  the  Greek 
historian  Herodotus,  the  dry  bones  of  which  Browning  has  clothed  with  life.  Instead 
of  a  sketch  of  bare  events,  Pheidippides  himself  is  made  to  relate  to  the  archons 
of  Athens  his  own  experiences  and  emotions  as  he  went  on  his  errand  to  Sparta  for 
aid  to  Athens,  and  on  his  way  back  met  the  great  god  Pan,  who  promised  Athens 
aid.  The  incident  of  Pan's  offering  him  a  worthy  reward,  and  of  his  last  run  to 
Athens  to  announce  the  victory  of  Marathon,  is  added  by  the  poet. 

"And  first,  before  they  left  the  city,  the  generals  sent  off  to  Sparta  a  herald,  one 
Pheidippides,  who  was  by  birth  an  Athenian,  and  by  birth  and  practice  a  trained 
runner.  This  man,  according  to  the  account  which  he  gave  to  the  Athenians  on 
his  return,  when  he  was  near  Mount  Parthenium,  above  Tegea,  fell  in  with  the  god 
Pan,  who  called  him  by  his  name,  and  bade  him  ask  the  Athenians  '  wherefore  they 
neglected  him  so  entirely,  when  he  was  kindly  disposed  towards  them,  and  had 
often  helped  them  in  times  past,  and  would  do  so  again  in  time  to  come  ?'  The 
Athenians,  entirely  believing  in  the  truth  of  this  report,  as  soon  as  their  affairs  were 
once  more  in  good  order,  set  up  a  temple  to  Pan  under  the  Acropolis,  and,  in 
return  for  the  message  which  I  have  recorded,  established  in  his  honor  yearly 
sacrifices  and  a  torch-race. 

"  On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak,  when   Pheidippides  was   sent  by  the 


NOTES.  499 

Athenian  generals,  and,  according  to  his  own  account  saw  Pan  on  his  journey  he 
reached  Sparta  on  the  very  next  day  after  quitting  the  city  of  Athens.  Upon  his 
arrival  he  went  before  the  rulers,  and  said  to  them :  — 

"  '  Men  of  Lacedaemon,  the  Athenians  beseech  you  to  hasten  to  their  aid  and 
not  allow  that  state,  which  is  the  most  ancient  in  all  Greece,  to  be  enslaved  by  the 
barbarians.  Eretria,  look  you,  is  already  carried  away  captive,  and  Greece 
weakened  by  the  loss  of  no  mean  city.' 

"  Thus  did  Pheidippides  deliver  the  message  committed  to  him.  And  the 
Spartans  wished  to  help  the  Athenians,  but  were  unable  to  give  them  any  present 
succor,  as  they  did  not  like  to  break  their  established  law.  It  was  the  ninth  day  of 
the  first  decade,  and  they  could  not  march  out  of  Sparta  on  the  ninth,  when  the 
moon  had  not  reached  the  full.  So  thfy  waited  for  the  full  of  the  moon." 
(Herodotus,  translated  by  Rawlinson  VI.) 

—  Xat'pere  viK&ufv.  Rejoice ;  we  conquer! — 4.  Her  of  the  agis  and  spear/ 
Athene  (Minerva),  who  was  represented  with  a  shield  and  spear.  —  5.  Ye  of 
the  bow,  etc.  Artemis  (Diana).  —  8.  Pan,  the  god  of  woods  and  fields,  of  flocks 
and  shepherds.  He  dwelt  in  caves,  wandered  on  the  mountains  and  in  valleys, 
played  with  nymphs,  and  so  on.  He  was  represented  as  having  the  horns 
and  hoofs  of  a  goat,  which  caused  many  to  be  frightened  at  his  appearance, 
hence  the  word  '  panic.'  It  is  said  he  won  the  fight  at  Marathon  by  causing 
a  panic  among  the  Persians.  —  9.  Tettix,  a  grasshopper.  Golden  grasshoppers 
were  worn  by  the  Athenians  to  signify  that  they  were  the  descendants  of  the 
original  inhabitants  of  the  country,  these  insects  being  supposed  to  spring  from  the 
ground.  —  18.  Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves' -tribute.  Darius  (493  B.C.)  sent 
heralds  into  all  parts  of  Greece  to  require,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Persians 
when  they  wished  to  exact  submission,  earth  and  water.  — 19.  Eretria  was  one  of 
the  principal  cities  of  the  Island  of  Eubcea. —  20.  Hellas,  Greece.  —  31.  Phoibos,  an 
epithet  of  Apollo.  —  33.  Olumpos,  Greek  spelling  of  Olympus,  the  home  of  the  gods. 
—  47.  Filetted  victim.  It  was  the  custom  to  adorn  sacrificial  victims  with  ribbons 
and  wreaths.  Fulsome,  rich,  liberal.  — 52.  Parnes,  an  error,  these  mountains  being 
in  the  north  of  Attica,  outside  the  route  of  Pheidippides.  — 62.  Erebos,  the  mysteri- 
ous darkness  under  earth.  — 89.  Miltiades  (died  489),  the  Greek  general  who  com- 
manded the  Athenians  at  the  battle  of  Marathon,  fought  490  B.C.— 106.  Akropolis, 
the  citadel  of  Athens.  — 109.  Fennel  field,  in  Greek,  Marathon;  and  Pan  meant 
when  he  gave  Pheidippides  the  bunch  of  fennel  to  signify  the  place  where  the 
victory  would  be  won.  ('  Dramatic  Idyls,'  First  Series,  1879.) 

P.  428.  The  Patriot  is  a  hero's  story  of  the  reward  and  punishment  dealt  him 
for  his  services  by  his  people  within  one  year.  To  act  regardless  of  praise  or 
blame,  save  God's,  seems  safer.  ('  Men  and  Women,'  1855.) 

P.  429.  Popularity  draws  in  symbolical  language  the  portrait  of  a  poet  whose 
genius  the  world  has  not  yet  recognized,  but  who  holds  in  his  hands  the  apprecia- 
tion of  the  future ;  a  poet  whose  inspirations  come  direct  from  his  own  soul,  like 
the  fisherman  catching  fresh  netfuls  of  Tyrian  shells.  The  critics,  learned  in  the 
poetic  inspirations  of  the  past,  do  not  recognize  the  same  thing  when  it  is  caught 
afresh  though  there  is  enough  of  the  marvellous  blue  dye  (poetic  inspiration)  to 
furnish  forth  beauties  never  before  imagined.  "  Mere  genius  in  the  rough !  they  say 
not  fit  to  be  called  art  until  refined  and  extracted  to  but  a  semblance  of  its  original 
force  by  the  crowd  of  imitating  poets,  who  straightway  become  popular,  while 
who  was  their  inspiration  probably  died  of  starvation.  -  24 .Tyre,  ancient  city  ol 
Phoenicia,  with  great  harbors  and  splendid  buildings.  -  26.  Tyrian  shells 
genera  Mure*  and  Purfura  have  a  gland  called  the  "adrectal  gland  which 
secretes  a  colorless  liquid.  It  turns  purple  upon  exposure  to  the  atmosphere,  and 


500 


NOTES. 


was  discovered  first  by  the  Phoenicians  and  used  as  a  dye.  —  42.  Solomon  ;  43. 
Cedar  House,  i  Kings  vii.  —  64.  What  porridge  had  John  Keats,  refers,  of  course, 
to  the  lack  of  contemporary  appreciation  from  which  Keats  suffered.  ('  Men  and 
Women,'  1855.) 

P.  432.  Pisgah  Sights.  Views  over  the  whole  of  life  from  the  heights  of  ripe 
experience.  I.  Perceives  the  reconciliation  and  relation  of  all  its  elements,-- 
unity.  II.  Perceives  the  value  of  imperfection,  the  uselessness  of  reformation,-- 
relativity.  III.  Is  a  fancy  of  the  soul,  disengaged  by  death  from  the  body,  disport- 
ing itself  in  freedom,  while  the  body  finds  pleasures  native  to  it  on  earth.  At  the 
close  of  the  life  of  Moses,  the  Lord  caused  him  to  view  the  land  he  was  not  t& 
enter,  from  "the  top  of  Pisgah."  Deut.  xxxiv.  (I.  and  II.  in  '  Pacchiarotto,  with 
Other  Poems,'  1876.  III.  the  Prologue  to  '  La  Saisiaz,'  1878,  placed  by  Browning 
as  the  third  '  Pisgah  Sight '  in  these  '  Selections,'  1880.) 

P.  435.  At  the  Mermaid  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Shakespeare  the  refutation  of 
the  supposition  that  his  life  is  to  be  discovered  in  his  plays.  He  disclaims  any 
desire  to  be  considered  "  next  Poet "  on  the  ground  that  he  has  revealed  his  soul  to 
the  public.  Such  a  poet  he  depicts  in  contrast  to  himself —  one,  a  pessimist,  seeing 
no  good  in  the  world,  with  a  mind  self-centred  upon  his  own  woes ;  the  other,  the 
optimist,  seeing  good  everywhere  in  the  world,  regarding  his  personal  woes  of  no 
account.  The  world  will  object  that  unless  he  lays  bare  his  own  soul,  he  cannot 
hope  to  touch  the  heart  of  humanity.  Very  well,  he  will  wait  for  recognition  in  the 
future,  in  the  meantime  content  to  be  friend  and  good  fellow.  The  Mermaid,  a 
tavern  in  Cheapside,  the  favorite  resort  of  the  great  Elizabethan  dramatists  and 
poets.  The  motto  of  the  poem  is  adapted  from  Ben  Jonson's  lines :  "  To  the 
Reader,"  opposite  the  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  in  the  First  Folio  edition :  "  This 
figure  that  thou  here  seest  put,  It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut." — 50.  Orichalc, 
a  mixed  metal,  something  like  bronze. — 114.  Threw  Venus,  the  most  successful 
throw  of  the  dice,  double  sixes,  was  called  "Venus"  by  the  Romans.  ('  Pacchia- 
rotto, with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  439.  House  deprecates  the  assumption  of  the  public,  that  the  private  and 
personal  affairs  of  a  poet  be  open  to  it.  The  indelicacy  is  illustrated  by  an  acci- 
dental exposure  of  a  house-interior,  and  the  comments  of  the  curious  crowd.  As 
to  Shakespeare's  high  example,  as  alleged  in  his  sonnets,  it  is  doubtful,  since  he 
must  then  have  abandoned  his  characteristic  dramatic  bent.  —  38.  With  this  same 
key,  etc.  A  quotation  from  Wordsworth's  Sonnet,  beginning,  "Scorn  not  the 
Sonnet."  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  441.  Shop  is  a  picturesque  presentation  of  the  thought  that  one's  life  should 
not  be  lived  merely  for  the  sake  of  worldly  success,  and  that  if  sordid  interests  are  nec- 
essary to  ensure  the  existence  of  the  body,  the  mind  and  soul  should  not  be  allowed 
to  suffer  for  want  of  spiritual  food.  ('  Pacchiarotto,  with  Other  Poems,'  1876.) 

P.  444.  A  Tale  illustrates  the  power  of  love  to  round  out  the  broken  harmonies 
of  life  and  art,  by  a  Greek  tale  supposed  to  be  told  to  a  poet  by  a  young  girl  of  a 
Greek  poet,  whose  lyre-string,  snapping  at  a  critical  moment,  was  supplied  to  per- 
fection by  the  voice  of  a  cricket,  which  lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre  "  for  mere  love 
of  music."  —  4.  Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme?  The  tale  appears  in  the  Greek 
Anthology  in  both  prose  and  verse,  and  is  quoted  by  Strabo  from  Timseus,  and 
by  others.  The  version  Browning  used  is  given  in  Mackail's  '  Select  Epigrams 
from  Greek  Anthology,'  as  follows  :  — 

"  The  strife  was  of  the  lyre,  and  Parthis  stood  up  against  me ;  but  when  the 
Locrian  shell  sounded  under  the  plectrum,  a  lyre-string  rang  and  snapped  jarringly ; 
but  ere  ever  the  tune  halted  in  its  fair  harmonies,  a  delicate  trilling  grasshopper 
seated  itself  on  the  lyre  and  took  up  the  note  of  the  last  string,  and  turned  the 


NOTES.  50I 

rustic  sound  that  till  then  was  vocal  in  the  groves  to  the  strain  of  our  touch  upon 
the  lyre ;  and,  therefore,  Eunomus  does  honor,  blessed  son  of  Leto,  to  thy  grass- 
hopper, seating  the  singer  in  brass  upon  his  harp." 

—  65.  His  Lotte's  power  too  spent,  etc.  An  allusion  to  Goethe's  elusive  manner 
with  young  women  when  affairs  pushed  him  to  a  choice  between  marriage  and  a 
career,  as  in  Fredrika's  case.  Charlotte  Buff,  on  whom  the  Lotte  of  '  Werther ' 
was  modelled,  was  not  really  one  of  these,  but,  as  Goethe  says,  he  bestowed  on  this 
Lotte  "  the  qualities  of  several  lovely  women."  (Epilogue  to  '  The  Two  Poets  of 
Croisic,1  1878.) 

P.  448.  Echetlos  illustrates  the  superior  worth  of  a  great  deed,  in  contrast  with 
that  of  a  great  name,  since  a  deed  can  never  grow  less,  while  a  great  name  may,  as 
in  the  case  of  Miltiades  and  Themistocles.  The  poem  is  developed  from  a  legend 
of  the  battle  of  Marathon  told  in  Pausanias'  '  Description  of  Greece '  (Book  I., 
Chap.  32) ,  as  follows :  "  And  it  chanced,  as  they  say  in  the  battle,  that  a  man  of 
rustic  appearance  and  dress  appeared,  who  slew  many  of  the  Persians  with  a 
ploughshare,  and  vanished  after  the  fight :  and  when  the  Athenians  made  enquiry 
of  the  oracle,  the  god  gave  no  other  answer,  but  bade  them  honor  the  god  Echet- 
ICBUS,"  that  is,  the  wielder  of  the  ploughshare.  —  3.  Marathon,  see  Notes,  P.  425. — 
12.  Kallimachos ,  Polemarch.  Polemarch  was  the  name  given  to  the  archon  (or 
ruler,  of  which  there  were  nine  in  Athens)  who  had  charge  of  military  affairs; 
Kallimichos  held  that  office  at  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Marathon,  and  was  among 
the  brave  Greeks  who  fell.  — 18.  Sakian.  The  Sakce  were  Scythian  tribes  border- 
ing on  the  Bactrians  and  Sogdians.of  the  East,  a  part  of  whom  had  submitted  to 
pay  tribute  to  Persia.  —  28.  Woe  for  the  great  name  Miltiades.  After  the  battle  of 
Marathon,  Miltiades  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  Athenians  by  the  failure  of  his 
siege  of  the  Island  of  Paros,  which,  it  was  found,  he  had  undertaken  in  order  to 
avenge  a  personal  spite.  He  was  indicted  and  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine,  but  died 
shortly  afterwards  of  a  hurt  received  at  Paros. —  29.  Themistocles  (about  514  B.C. 
to  449  B.C.),  chief  archon  of  Athens.  Long  prominent  for  his  services  both  in  war 
and  peace,  he  was  at  last  accused  of  bribery  and  ostracized ;  later,  of  treason,  when 
he  fled  from  Greece  to  Artaxerxes,  in  Persia,  who  treated  him  with  much  favor. 
('  Dramatic  Idyls,'  Second  Series,  1880.) 

P.  449.  Touch  him  ne'er  so  lightly.    A  lyrical  picture  of  the  contrast  between 
the  popular  notion  of  the  poet's  work,  as  quick-rooted  and  easy  growing,  like  an 
annual  in  a  flower  garden,  and  its  actual  nature,  strenuous  and  persistent  in  char- 
acter and  nurtured  by  obstacle,  like  a  slow-growing  pine  tree.    How  truly  Brown- 
ing rated  the  popular  opinion  of  a  poet  was  shown  by  the  criticism  that  greeted 
this  song,  as  if  he  had  drawn  a  contrast  between  all  other  poets  and  himself.  ^  In 
copying  the  poem  in  the  autograph  album  of  a  young  American  girl  in  Venice, 
October,  1880,  he  added  the  following  comment,  which  explains  his  intention :  — 
"  Thus  I  wrote  in  London,  musing  on  my  betters, 
Poets  dead  and  gone;   and  lo,  the  critics  cried, 
'  Out  on  such  a  boast ! '  as  if  I  dreamed  that  fetters 
Binding  Dante  bind  up  —  me  !   as  if  true  pride 
Were  not  also  humble  ! 

So  I  smiled  and  sighed 

As  I  oped  your  book  in  Venice  this  bright  morning, 
Sweet  new  friend  of  mine  !   and  felt  the  clay  or  sand, 
Whatso'er  my  soil  be,  break  — for  praise  or  scorning  - 
Out  in  grateful  fancies  —  weeds  ;   but  weeds  expand 
Almost  into  flowers,  held  by  such  a  kindly  hand." 

(Epilogue  to  '  Dramatic  Idyls,'  Second  Series,  1880.) 


502 


NOTES. 


P.  449.  Wanting  is  What?  may  simply  express  that  no  beauty  is  perfect 
without  its  complement,  love;  or  it  may  refer  more  particularly  to  Divine  love, 
without  which  life  is  incomplete.  The  latter  interpretation  is  rendered  probable 
on  account  of  the  use  of  the  term,  "  O  comer,"  line  9,  which  the  Rev.  J.  Sharpe 
points  out  is  one  of  the  titles  of  the  Messiah  in  the  New  Testament.  "  6  epxofitvos," 
the  Future  One,  He  who  shall  come  (Mat.  xi.  3;  xxi.  9;  Luke  vii.  19,  20;  John 
xii.  13;  vi.  14;  xi.  27).  (Prologue  to  '  Jocoseria,'  1883.) 

P.  450.  Never  the  Time  and  the  Place.  A  song  of  longing  for  a  loved  Pres- 
ence, lacking  under  friendly  conditions  of  time  and  place,  and  only  to  be  supplied 
now  under  unfriendly  conditions  in  a  dream  and  within  the  grave,  yet  towards 
which  the  love  whose  power  the  lover's  Past  has  known  shall  be  able  to  guide  his 
Future.  ('  Jocoseria,'  1883.) 

P.  450.  Round  us  the  Wild  Creatures.  A  lyric  illustrating  the  thought  that 
two  who  love  each  other  should  let  their  love  expand  into  a  love  for  humanity,  and 
should  live  in  and  for  the  world,  not  selfishly  for  each  other  alone.  ('  Ferishtah's 
Fancies,'  1884.) 

P.  451.  Ask  not  one  least  word  of  praise,  sings  the  inadequacy  of  speech  and 
the  intelligence  of  sense  to  impart  the  emotions  of  the  soul.  ('  Ferishtah's 
Fancies,'  1884.) 

P.  451.  Epilogue  to  Ferishtah's  Fancies  expresses  a  doubt  as  to  whether 
an  optimistic  view  of  life  is  not  after  all  but  the  illumination  shed  over  it  by 
love.  (1884.) 

P.  452.  The  Names.  This  sonnet,  contrasting  the  potency  mixed  with  love 
associated  with  Shakespeare's  name,  as  representing  the  utmost  of  finite  creative 
might,  with  the  unmixed  awe  associated  with  the  name  of  the  Infinite  Creator,  is 
based  upon  the  fact  that  the  Hebrews  regard  the  Sacred  Name  as  unspeakable, 
substituting  Adonai  for  Jahwe  in  reading.  (Written  for  the  book  of  the  Shake- 
sperian  Show,  held  in  London,  May  29-31,  1884,  to  pay  off  the  debt  on  the 
Woman's  Hospital.) 

P.  452.  Why  I  am  a  Liberal?  Because,  answers  the  poet,  freedom  is  the  neces- 
sary condition  for  development.  Therefore,  he  wishes  for  all  others  the  same 
opportunities  as  he  himself  has  had  for  that  development.  This  poem  was  written 
in  answer  to  the  question,  Why  I  am  a  Liberal  ?  sent  out  by  Cassell  and  Co.  to 
English  men  of  letters.  It  was  published  by  them,  together  with  the  other  replies, 
in  a  volume  edited  by  Andrew  Reid  in  1885. 

P.  453.  Prologue  to  '  Asolando '  exalts  the  clear  sobriety  of  sight  that  comes 
with  age  to  the  poet,  divesting  nature  of  the  alien,  falsifying  vari-color  that  made 
her  seem  divine,  and  reporting  her  works  truly  as  akin  to  man,  God  alone  trans- 
cending both  nature  and  humanity.  ('  Asolando,'  published  Dec.  12,  1889,  the 
day  of  the  poet's  death  :  date  given  on  the  title-page,  however,  is  1890.) 

P.  454.  Rosny.  A  girl,  whose  lover  has  gone  to  the  war,  holds  dreamy  converse 
with  herself,  her  mind  divided  between  a  mood  in  which  she  pictures  her  pride  in 
him,  returned  with  an  honorable  scar  on  his  face,  while  he  declares  that  with  her 
love  in  his  soul  he  could  not  do  other  than  conquer  his  foes  and  return  to  her  safe ; 
and  a  mood  in  which  she  pictures  him  dead  on  the  battlefield,  driven  to  his  fate  by 
her  love,  and  finds  it  better  that  it  should  be  so,  since  certain  envious  ones  might  sneer 
that  they  would  hardly  be  proud  of  a  hero  who  returned  from  the  war  safe.  —  2. 
Clara,  Clara.  This  refrain  throughout  the  poem  makes  it  particularly  difficult  of 
interpretation.  It  has  been  suggested  that  Clara  is  a  rival  whom  the  speaker  ad- 
dresses. It  seems  rather  to  the  editors  of  the  present  volume  to  be  the  speaker's 
grief-stricken  address  to  herself,  showing  the  conflict  between  her  love  and  ambi- 


NOTES.  503 

tion,  and  the  realization  that  if  her  lover  falls  it  will  be  because  her  ideal  of  heroism 
has  driven  him  to  his  fate.  ('  Asolando,1  1889.) 

P.  455.  Poetics  illustrates  the  deficiency  of  metaphors  conventionally  drawn 
from  the  inanimate,  or  the  lower  animal  world,  to  celebrate  fitly  the  beauty  of 
human  love.  ('  Asolando,'  1889.) 

P.  455.  Summum  Bonum.  In  a  moment  of  love,  which  is  the  highest  good, 
is  contained  all  the  beauty  and  truth  of  the  universe.  ('  Asolando,'  1889.) 

P.  455.  Mucklemouth  Meg.  A  lively  ballad  describing  an  actual  foray  over 
the  border  of  a  young  English  lord,  William  Scott  of  the  House  of  Harden ;  his 
seizure  by  the  Scotch  laird,  Sir  Gideon  Murray  of  Elibank;  the  intervention  of  the 
Dame  should  he  marry  wide-mouthed  Meg ;  his  contumacy,  confinement,  and 
happy  release  by  the  misnamed  Meg.  ('  Asolando,'  1889.) 

P.  456.  Epilogue  to  '  Asolando '  deprecates  the  thought  that  those  who  love 
the  poet  should  pity  him  in  death,  and  so,  mistake  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life  with 
its  strenuous  hopefulness  in  the  face  of  all  difficulties,  and  its  joyous  faith  in  a 
future  of  soul  development.  ('  Asolando,'  1889.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


1833.    Pauline :  A  Fragment  of  a  Con-    1844. 

fession. 

1835.    Paracelsus. 
1837.    Strafford :  A  Historical  Tragedy.    1845. 

1840.  Sordello. 

1841.  Bells  and  Pomegranates.     No.  I. 

Pippa  Passes. 

1842.  Bells  and  Pomegranates.    No.  II. 

King  Victor  and  King  Charles. 

1842.  Bells  and  Pomegranates.    No.  III. 

Dramatic  Lyrics. 

CONTENTS. 

Cavalier  Tunes: 

(1)  Marching  Along. 

(2)  Give  a  Rouse. 

(3)  My  Wife  Gertrude. 
Italy  and  France. 
Camp  and  Cloister. 

In  a  Gondola. 
Artemis  Prologizes. 
Waring. 
Queen-Worship  : 

(1)  Rudel    and    the    Lady   of 

Tripoli. 

(2)  Cristina. 
Madhouse  Cells. 

Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-el- 

Kadr.     1842. 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. 
1643.    Bells  and  Pomegranates.    No.  IV. 

The  Return  of  the  Druses.    A 

Tragedy  in  Five  Acts. 

1843.  Bells  and  Pomegranates.     No.  V. 

A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.    A 
Tragedy  in  Three  Acts. 

504 


Bells  and  Pomegranates.    No.  VI. 

Colombo's   Birthday.     A   Play 

in  Five  Acts. 
Bells    and    Pomegranates.     No. 

VII.    Dramatic  Romances  and 

Lyrics. 

CONTENTS. 

"  How   they  brought   the    Good 

News  from  Ghent  to  Aix." 
Pictor  Ignotus. 
Italy  in  England. 
England  in  Italy. 
The  Lost  Leader. 
The  Lost  Mistress. 
Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad. 
The  Tomb  at  St.  Praxed's. 
Garden  Fancies : 

(1)  The  Flower's  Name. 

(2)  Sibrandus  Schafnaburgen- 

sis. 
France  and  Spain : 

(1)  The  Laboratory. 

(2)  The  Confessional. 
The  Flight  of  the  Duchess. 
Earth's  Immortalities. 

Song :   "  Nay,   but  you,  who   d« 

not  love  her." 
The  Boy  and  the  Angel. 
Night  and  Morning. 
Claret  and  Tokay. 
Saul. 

Time's  Revenges. 
The  Glove. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


505 


1846.  Bells  and  Pomegranates.  No. 
VIII.  and  last.  Luria:  and 
A  Soul's  Tragedy. 

1849.  Poems :  A  New  Edition  in  Two 

Volumes. 

1850.  Christmas-Eve  and  Easter-Day. 
1852.    Letters  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

With  an  Introductory  Essay  by 

Robert  Browning. 
^854.    Two  Poems  by  Elizabeth  Barrett 

and   Robert   Browning.     [The 

Twins.] 
•1855.    Cleon. 

1855.    The  Statue  and  the  Bust. 
1855.    Men  and  Women.    In  two  vols. 

CONTENTS.    I. 

Love  among  the  Ruins. 

A  Lovers'  Quarrel. 

Evelyn  Hope. 

Up  at  a  Villa—  Down  in  the  City. 

(As  Distinguished  by  an  Italian 

Person  of  Quality.) 
A  Woman's  Last  Word. 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi. 
A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's. 
By  the  Fireside. 
Any  Wife  to  Any  Husband. 
An  Epistle  containing  the  Strange 

Medical    Experience    of   Kar- 

shish,  the  Arab  Physician. 
Mesmerism. 
A  Serenade  at  the  Villa. 
My  Star. 

Instans  Tyrannus. 
A  Pretty  Woman. 
"Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark 

Tower  came." 
Respectability. 
A  Light  Woman. 
The  Statue  and  the  Bust 
Love  Jrt  a  Life. 
Life  in  a  Love. 

How  it  strikes  a  Contemporary. 
The  Last  Ride  Together. 
The  Patriot  — An  Old  Story. 
Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 
Bishop  Blougram's  Apology. 
Memorabilia. 


CONTENTS.    II. 

1855.    Andrea  del  Sarto.    (Called  "  The 
Faultless  Painter.") 

Before. 

After. 

In  Three  Days. 

In  a  Year. 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence. 

In  a  Balcony.    First  Part. 

In  a  Balcony.    Second  Part. 

In  a  Balcony.    Third  Part 

Saul. 

"  De  Gustibus  —  " 

Women  and  Roses. 

Protus. 

Holy-Cross  Day.  (On  which  the 
Jews  were  forced  to  attend  an 
Annual  Christian  Sermon  in 
Rome.) 

The  Guardian-Angel:  A  Picture 
at  Fano. 

Cleon. 

The  Twins. 

Popularity. 

The  Heretic's  Tragedy :  A  Mid- 
dle-Age Interlude. 

Two  in  the  Campagna. 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral. 

One  Way  of  Love. 

Another  Way  of  Love. 

"  Transcendentalism :  "  A  Poem 
in  Twelve  Books. 

Misconceptions. 

One  Word  More.    To  E.  B.  B. 
1863.    The  Poetical  Works  of  Robert 
Browning.   Third  Edition. 

1863.  Selections     from     the     Poetical 

Works    of    Robert    Browning. 
Three  volumes. 

1864.  Gold  Hair :  A  Legend  of  Pornic. 
1864.    Dramatis  Personae. 

CONTENTS. 

James  Lee. 

Gold  Hair :  A  Legend  of  Pornic. 
The  Worst  of  it. 

Dts  Aliter  Visum ;  or,  Le  Byron 
de  Nos  Jours. 


5o6 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


1864.  Too  Late. 
Abt  Vogler. 
Rabbi  ben  Ezra. 

A  Death  in  the  Desert. 

Caliban  upon  Setebos ;  or  Natural 

Theology  in  the  Island. 
Confessions. 
May  and  Death. 
Prospice. 
Youth  and  Art. 
A  Face. 
A  Likeness. 

Mr.  Sludge,  "  The  Medium." 
Apparent  Failure. 
Epilogue. 

1865.  A  Selection  from  the  Works  of 

Robert  Browning. 

1868.  The  Poetical  Works  of  Robert 
Browning.  Six  volumes. 

1868.    The  Ring  and  the  Book. 

1871.  Balaustion's  Adventure :  Includ- 
ing a  Transcript  from  Euripides. 

1871.  Prince       Hohenstiel-Schwangau, 

Saviour  of  Society. 

1872.  Fifine  at  the  Fair. 

1872.  Selections     from     the     Poetical 

Works. 

1873.  Red  Cotton  Night-Cap  Country; 

or,  Turf  and  Towers. 
1875.    Aristophanes'  Apology:    Includ- 
ing a  Transcript  from  Euripides, 
being  the   Last  Adventure    of 
Balaustion. 

1875.  The  Inn  Album. 

1876.  Pacchiarotto,  and  how  he  worked 

in     Distemper:      with     Other 
Poems. 

CONTENTS. 
Prologue. 
Of    Pacchiarotto,    and    how   he 

worked  in  Distemper. 
At  the  "  Mermaid." 
House. 
Shop. 

Pisgah-Sights  (i). 
Pisgah-Sights  (2). 
Fears  and  Scruples. 
Natural  Magic. 


1876.  Magical  Nature. 
Bifurcation. 
Numpholeptos. 
Appearances. 

St.  Martin's  Summer. 

Herve  Riel. 

A  Forgiveness. 

Cenciaja. 

Filippo  Baldinucci  on  the  Privi 

lege  of  Burial. 
Epilogue. 

1877.  The  Agamemnon  of  ^Eschylus. 

1878.  La  Saisiaz. 

1878.  The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic. 

1879.  Dramatic  Idyls. 

CONTENTS, 
Martin  Relph. 
Pheidippides. 
Halbert  and  Hob. 
Ivan  Ivanovitch. 
Tray. 
Ned  Bratts. 

1880.  Dramatic  Idyls :  Second  Series. 

CONTENTS. 
Proem. 
Echetlos. 
Clive. 
Muleykeh. 
Pietro  of  Abano. 

Doctor . 

Pan  and  Luna. 
Epilogue. 

1880.    Selections     from     the     Poetical 
Works    of  Robert    Browning : 
Second  Series. 
1883.    Jocoseria. 

CONTENTS. 

Wanting  is  —  what  ? 

Donald. 

Solomon  and  Balkis. 

Cristina  and  Monaldeschi. 

Mary  Wollstonecraft  and  Fuseli, 

Adam,  Lilith,  and  Eve. 

Ixion. 

Jochanan  Hakkadosh. 

Never  the  Time  and  the  Place. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


507 


1883. 
1884. 


Pambo. 
Ferishtah's  Fancies. 

CONTENTS. 


Prologue. 

The  Eagle. 

The  Melon-Seller. 

Shah  Abbas. 

The  Family. 

The  Sun. 

Mihrab  Shah. 

A  Camel-Driver. 

Two  Camels. 

Cherries. 

Plot-Culture. 

A  Pillar  at  Sebzevar. 

A  Bean-Stripe :  Also  Apple-Eat- 
ing. 

Epilogue. 

1887.  Parleyings  with  Certain  People  of 
Importance  in  their  Day,  to  wit : 
Bernard  de  Mandeville,  Daniel 
Bartoli,  Christopher  Smart, 
George  Bubb  Dodington,  Fran- 
cis Furini,  Gerard  de  Lairesse, 
and  Charles  Avison.  Intro- 
duced by  a  Dialogue  between 
Apollo  and  the  Fates;  con- 
cluded by  another  between 
John  Fust  and  his  Friends. 
1888-9.  The  Poetical  Works  of  Robert 

Browning.    Sixteen  volumes. 
1890  [1889].    Asolando:    Fancies   and 
Facts. 


CONTENTS. 


1890.    Prologue. 
Rosny. 
Dubiety. 
Now. 
Humility. 
Poetics. 

Summum  Bonurrv 
A  Pearl,  a  GirU 
Speculative. 
White  Witchcraft. 
Bad  Dreams,  I. 
Bad  Dreams,  II. 
Bad  Dreams,  III. 
Bad  Dreams,  IV. 
Inapprehensiveness. 
Which? 

The  Cardinal  and  the  Dog. 
The  Pope  and  the  Net. 
The  Bean-Feast. 
Muckle-mouth  Meg. 
Arcades  Ambo. 
The  Lady  and  the  Painter. 
Ponte  dell'  Angelo,  Venice. 
Beatrice  Signorini. 
Flute  Music,  with  an  Accompani- 
ment. 

"  Imperante  Auguslo  natusest— " 
Development. 
Rephan. 
Reverie. 
Epilogue. 


INDEX   TO   POEMS. 


PACK 

Poems  Notes 

Abt  Vogler 152  476 

After,  .,  .- 3M  492 

Amphibian    .....  282  489 

Andrea  del  Sarto  ....  133  472 

Any  Wife  to  Any  Hnsband  .        .     72  465 

Apparent  Failure  .        .        .        .162  478 

Apparitions 218  483 

Appearances 230  485 

Artemis  Prologizes        .        .         .  422  498 

Ask  not  One  Least  Word  of  Praise  451  502 

"  Asolando,"  Epilogue  to     .        .  456  503 

"  Asolando,"  Prologue  to     .        .  453  502 

Balcony,  In  a        .        .         .        .  318  493 

Before 312  492 

Bifurcation 237  485 

Bishop  Blougram's  Apology         .  347  495 
Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at  Saint 

Praxed's  Church,  The        .        .  138  473 

Boy  and  the  Angel,  The        .        .  403  497 

Caliban  upon  Setebos    .        .        .  191  481 

Cavalier  Tunes      ....  310  492 

Cenciaja 251  487 

"Childe     Roland    to    the     Dark 

Tower  came "     .        .        .        .  165  478 

Cleon 174  479 

Confessions 306  491 

Count  Gismond     ....      5  460 

Cristina ......      4  460 

Death  in  the  Desert,  A         .        .  407  497 

"  De  Gustibus  — - "     .        .           157  477 
Dis  Aliter  Visum;  or,  Le  Byron 

de  Nos  Jours      .        .        .        .301  491 

Earth's  Immortalities    .         .        .56  464 

Echetlos 448  501 

Englishman  in  Italy,  The     .        .  117  469  | 

Epilogue 213  483 

Epilogue  to  "  Asolando "      .        .  456  503 

Epilogue  to  "  Ferishtah's  Fancies  "451  502 

Epistle,  An 184  480 

Eurydice  to  Orpheus     ...      9  460 

Evelyn  Hope         .        .        .        .  160  478 

Face,  A i  459 

Fears  and  Scruples        .        •        -421  49° 
"  Ferishtah's  Fancies,"  Epilogue 

to 451  5<» 

rflippo  Baldinucci  on  the  Privilege 

of  Burial 259  487 


241 

'-4 

4.J 
219 

5 


Fireside,  By  the     . 

Flight  of  the  Duchess,  The  . 

Forgiveness,  A      ... 

Fra  Lippp  Lippi    . 

French  Camp,  Incident  of  the 

Garden  Fancies     , 

Gismond,  Count    .        . 

Glove,  The    ....."      9 

Gold  Hair 91 

Gondola,  In  a  .  .  .  .45 
Grammarian's  Funeral,  A  .  .171 
Guardian-Angel,  The  .  .  .158 
Heretic's  Tragedy,  The  .  27? 

Herv<<  Riel 314 

Holy-Cross  Day  ....  278 
Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad  .  113 

House 439 

Householder,  The  .  .  .  307 
How  it  strikes  a  Contemporary  .  143 
"  How  they  brought  the  Good 

News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  "  .  39 
In  a  Gondola  .  .  .  .45 
Instans  Tyrannus  .  .  •  182 
Italian  in  England,  The  .  .113 
"  James  Lee's  Wife,"  Song  from .  79 
James  Lee's  Wife .  .  .  .288 
Laboratory,  The  ....  89 
Last  Ride  together,  The  .  .  56 
Liberal,  Why  I  am  a  .  .  .452 
Life  in  a  Love  ....  88 
Light  Woman,  A  .  .  .  .86 

Likeness,  A 238 

[.ost  Trader,  The.  .  .  .44 
Lost  Mistress,  The  .  .  .224 
Love  among  the  Ruins  .  .  103 
Love  in  a  Life  .  ...  88 
Lovers'  Quarrel,  A  .  .  .51 
Magical  Nature  ....  219 
Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha  .  147 
May  and  Death  ....  240 
Meeting  at  Night  .  .  .  .81 

Memorabilia 161 

"  Mermaid,"  At  the      ...  435 

Mesmerism 59 

Metidja  to  Abd-cl-Kadr,  Through 

the 42 

Misconceptions     ....    83 


PAGE 

Poems  Notes 
•    64        464 
'9 


462 
486 
47° 
463 
483 
460 
460 
466 
464 
478 
477 
488 
492 
489 
469 
500 
49« 
475 

462 
464 
479 
469 
465 
49° 
466 

464 
502 
466 
465 
485 
4$3 
484 
467 
466 
464 
483 


4*5 
47» 

Sf> 

464 

463 

465 


509 


5io 


INDEX   TO  POEMS. 


PAGE 

Poems  Notes 

Mr.  Sludge,  "  The  Medium"       .  369  497 

Muckle-Mouth  Meg      .        .        .  455  503 

My  Last  Duchess ....      2  459 

My  Star         .        ...        .               i  459 

Names,  The  .        .        .        .        .  452  502 

Natural  Magic       .         .         .         .218  483 

Never  the  Time  and  the  Place      .  450  502 

Numpholeptos       ....  226  484 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence       .        .  339  494 

One  Way  of  Love         .        .        .  225  484 

"  Paracelsus,"  Song  from      .        .41  463 

Parting  at  Morning        .         .        .81  465 

Patriot,  The 428  499 

Pictor  Ignotus        .         .         .         .123  470 
"  Pippa  Passes,"  Song  from      3,  39,   459,  462 

Pisgah  Sights,  i              ...  432  500 

Pisgah  Sights.  2     ....  433  500 

Pisgah  Sights.  3     .        .         .        .434  500 

Pheidippides  .....  425  498 

Poetics 455  503 

Popularity 429  499 

Porphyria's  Lover         .        .        .  257  487 

Pretty  Woman,  A          ...     83  465 
Privilege  of  Burial,  Filippo  Baldi- 

nucci  on  the        ....  259  487 

Prologue  to  "Asolando "       .         .  453  502 

Prospice 164  478 

Protus 146  475 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra    ....  207  482 

Respectability       ....  300  491 

Rosny 454  502 

Round  us  the  Wild  Creatures        .  450  502 


PAGE 

Poems  Notes 

Rudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli        .  225  484 

Saul 198  481 

Serenade  at  the  Villa,  A                 -14  461 

Shop       ......  441  500 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister .  272  488 

Song 14  461 

Song  from  "  James  Lee's  Wife  "  .     79  465 

Song  from  "  Paracelsus "      .         .     41  463 
Song  from  "  Pippa  Passes  "      3,  39,    459,  462 

Spanish  Cloister,  Soliloquy  of  the  272  488 

Statue  and  the  Bust,  The      .        .     96  466 

St.  Martin's  Summer     .         .         .  285  489 

Summum  Bonum  ....  455  503 

Tale,  A  .        .        .        .        .        .  444  500 

Three  Days,  In     ....  223  483 

Time's  Revenges  ....  105  467 

Toccata  of  Galuppi's,  A        .         .  141  474 

Too  Late 234  485 

Touch  him  ne'er  so  Lightly  .         .  449  501 

Tray 3°9  492 

Two  in  the  Campagna  .        .         .  155  477 

Up  at  a  Villa  —  Down  in  the  City.  120  470 

Wall,  A           .         .     •    .         .         .217  483 

Wanting  is — What?     .         .        .  449  502 

Waring  ......  107  467 

Why  I  am  a  Liberal       .         .         ,  452  502 

Woman's  Last  Word,  A        .        .79  465 

Women  and  Roses        .         .         .Si  465 

Worst  of  it,  The    ....  230  485 

Year,  In  a               .        .        .        .    76  465 

Youth  and  Art       ....     17  461 


INDEX   TO  FIRST   LINES. 


PAGE 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain  .  .  162 
Ah,  Love,  but  a  day  ....  288 
All  I  believed  is  true  .  .  .  .59 
All  I  can  say  is  —  I  saw  it  ...  218 
All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves  .  225 
All  s  over, then:  does  truth  sound  bitter.  224 

All  that  I  know i 

All  the  health  and  the  bloom  of  the  year 

in  the  bag  of  one  bee    ....  455 
Among  these  latter  busts  we  count  by 

scores 146 

And  so  you  found  that  poor  room  dull     .  230 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 42 

Ask  not  one  least  word  of  praise      .        .  451 
At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time         456 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead         .        .  160 
But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more  .        .  133 
But  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes, 
the  brow          ......      9 

Christ  God  who  savest  man,  save  most    .      5 
Cleon  the  poet,  (from  the  sprinkled  isles.  174 
Could  I  but  live  again       ....  433 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only 
leave       .         .         .        .        .        .        .158 

Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice    .        .  300 
Escape  me          .        .        .  ^      .        •        .88 
Fear  death?  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat  .  164 
Fee,  faw,  fum !  bubble  and  squeak  .        .  278 
First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river 
and  rock         ......  425 

Flower  —  I  never  fancied,  jewel  —  I  pro- 
fess you 2'9 

Fortu,  Fortu,  my  beloved  one,  sit  here  by 

my  side "7 

Frowned  the   Laird  on  the  Lord:   "  So 

red-handed  I  catch  thee          .        .        .455 
Give    her   but  a  least    excuse    to    love 


Good  to  forgive     _ 

Grow  old  along  with  me   . 

Gr-r-r —  there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough 

and  to  spare   .         .        .         •   _     • 
Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 
"  Heigho,"  yawned  one  day  King  Francis 
Here  is  a  story   shall  stir  you!    Stand 

up,  Greeks  dead  and  gone     . 
Here's  my  case.     Of  old  I  used  to  love 

him 


434 

207 
272 

120 
41 

9 

448 
421  • 


PAGE 

Here 's  the  garden  she  walked  across  .  219 
Here  was  I  with  my  arm  and  heart  .  .  234 
Hist,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft  .  .  .  149 
How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do  .  64 
I  am  a  goddess  of  the  ambrosial  courts  .  422 
I  am  indeed  the  personage  you  know  .  241 
I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave  .  124 
I  could  have  painted  pictures  like  that 

youth's 123 

I  dream  of  a  red-rose  tree         .        .        .81 
If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
I  know  a  Mount,  the  gracious  Sun  per- 


225 

I  —  "next  Poet?"  No,  my  hearties  -435 
I  only  knew  one  poet  in  my  life  .  .  143 
I  said  —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so  -56 
I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart .  45 
I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and 

he 30 

It  once  might  have  been,  once  only .  .  16 
It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way  .  .  428 
I  've  a  Friend,  over  the  sea  ...  105 
I  wish  that  when  you  died  last  May  .  240 
I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day  .  .  .155 
Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us  .  44 
Karshish,  the  picker-up  of  learning's 

crumbs 184 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King  .  310 
Let 's  contend  no  more,  Love  .  _  .  -79 
Let  them  fight  it  out,  friend !  things  have 

gone  too  far  .  .  .  _  .  .  .  312 
Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse  .  171 
May  I  pnnt,  Shelley,  how  it  came  to  pass  251 
Morning,  evening,  noon,  and  night  .  403 

My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every 

word 165 

My  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou  72 
Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her  .  .  14 
Never  any  more  .  .  .  «  -7" 


Never  the  time  and  the  place  .  .  .  45° 
No,  boy,  we  must  not  (so  began  .  .  959 
No,  for  I  '11  save  it !  Seven  years  since  162 
No  more  wine!  then  we'll  push  back 

chairs  and  talk 347 

No  protesting,  dearest  ....  285 

Now •  3»8 

Now,  don't,  sir!  Don't  expose  me!  Just 

this  once 3^9 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly  89 
Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less  .  .  i8« 


5" 


512 


INDEX   TO  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 
Oh,  Galuppi,  Baldassare,  this  is  very  sad 

to  find 141 

Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old 

earth 79 

Oh,  Love  —  no,  Love!  All  the  noise  be- 
low, Love 451 

Oh,  the  beautiful  girl,  too  white  .  .  91 
Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April 's 

there .113 

Oh,  what  a  dawn  of  day  .  .  .  .  51 
On  the  first  of  the  Feast  of  Feasts  .  .  213 
On  the  sea,  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen 

hundred  ninety-two  ....  314 
O  the  old  wall  here!  How  could  I  pass  217 

Over  the  ball  of  it 432 

Room  after  room 88 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea  81 
Round  us  the  wild  creatures,  overhead  the 

trees 450 

Said  Abner,  "At  last  thou  art  come!  Ere 

I  tell,  ere  thou  speak  ....  198 
Savage  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late, 

lone          .......  307 

See,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in  time  56 
Shakespeare !  —  to  such  name's  sounding 

what  succeeds  .....  452 
Shall  I  sonnet-sing  you  about  myself  .  439 
She  should  never  have  looked  at  me  if  she 

meant  I  should  not  love  her  .  .  4 

Sing  me  a  hero.  Quench  my  thirst  .  308 
So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end  .  86 
So,  friend,  your  shop  was  all  your  house  441 
So  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days  .  .  223 
Some  people  hang  portraits  up  .  .  238 
"  So  say  the  foolish  !  "  Say  the  foolish 

so,  Love 455 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are  .  .  429 
Still  you  stand,  still  you  listen,  still  you 

smile       .......  226 


PAGE 

Stop,  let  me  have  the  truth  of  that  .  301 
Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss  .  .  .  218 
[Supposed  of  Pamphylax  the  Antiochene  406 
Take  the  cloak  from  his  face  and  at  first  314 
That  fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers  .  83 
That  second  time  they  hunted  me  .  .113 
That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 

wall 2 

That  was  I,  you  heard  last  night  .  .  14 
The  fancy  I  had  to-day  ....  282 
The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  .  81 
The  Lord  we  look  to  once  for  all  .  .  275 
The  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March  339 
The  Poet's  age  is  sad:  for  why  .  .  453 
The  rain  set  early  in  to-night  .  .  .  257 
There 's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world 

knows  well 96 

The  year's  at  the  spring  .  .  .  .39 
This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to  -83 

Touch  him  ne'er  so  lightly,  into  song  he 

broke 


Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  .  .  138 
Wanting  is  —  What  .....  449 
We  were  two  lovers ;  let  me  lie  by  her  .  237 
What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me  .  .  444 
What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears  .  .  306 
What 's  become  of  Waring  .  .  .  107 
Where  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening 

smiles 103 

"  Why?"  Because  all  I  haply  can  and  do  452 
['Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is 

best 191 

Woe,  he  went  galloping  into  the  war  .  454 
Would  it  were  I  had  been  false,  not  you  .  230 
Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  mani- 
fold music  I  build  .....  152 
Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees  157 
You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  43 
You  "re  my  friend  .  .  19 


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